


exit music (for a game)

by nukapoprocket



Series: do i wanna know? [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, end of the van der linde gang, people do crazy things when they're in love and have absolutely nothing to lose, post visiting hours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23035261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nukapoprocket/pseuds/nukapoprocket
Summary: pack and get dressedbefore your father hears usbefore all hell breaks loose(...)breathe, keep breathingdon't lose your nervebreathe, keep breathingi can't do this alone
Relationships: Javier Escuella/John Marston
Series: do i wanna know? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655509
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46





	1. been wonderin' if your heart's still open

**Author's Note:**

> are you trying to fucking tell me the only time john marston cries in this fucking game series is because of javier escuella
> 
> like what else was i going to do with this information lmfao fucking honestly r*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a mean sonovabitch, Javier.” John said simply, not daring to let his own temper fly free. It wasn’t worth the screaming match; the possible fist fight and words being said that he couldn’t take back. John would be damned if he was going to let what they had spent years building together be destroyed by whatever madness had taken the camp. “Lucky I love you anyway.”

When Arthur and Sadie rode in with John, alive and breathing and still in one piece, there wasn’t the usual fanfare and happy woops of excitement that a member of their barely holding on family had been dragged back from the depths of a state penitentiary would receive. Arthur said there wouldn’t be, that Dutch would be unhappy, that things had _changed_ , but John wasn’t ready for any of it.

“And now they may come to hang us _all._ ”

John’s eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue. There was a roaring in his ears; he was goddamn angry, and he wanted to let Abigail loose. Let her bluster all red faced and furious at Dutch, ready to snatch his gun and let him have it. But John swore to Arthur he wouldn’t do a thing, so he held her back, barely. Took the verbal dressing down. Grit his teeth.

Dutch stomped off with Micah simpering after him in a way that made bile rise in John’s throat. Their exit revealed Javier had been standing behind them, and when John finally saw him, their eyes met.

_Clashed._

For all of Dutch’s anger, his ominous threats about everyone’s necks, the real storm clouds didn’t roll in until that moment. There was a crackle of electricity, the brush of heavy clouds bunching up to make something dangerous if left unheeded. Anger—no, hurt – was written on Javier’s face, clear as day. The only thing that broke his gaze with Javier was the closed tent flaps. For Javier’s part, his hands twitched on his repeater, his grip tightening for a moment before he stalked to his post for the day, leaving the camp rattled from an interaction so short and quiet in the wake of Dutch’s yelling.

John let Abigail bustle around him while he tried to catch his breath, both physically and mentally. She had kept his tent neat and tidy; his cot cleaned, and all his things still packed up under it. Only his rug had been laid out, as the cold ground wasn’t much for comfort. He sat down on his cot heavily and shut his eyes.

“Arthur or Sadie, or probably Charles can get you up to speed but it ain’t been good, John.” Abigail began after she darted out of the tent to grab Jack and plop the boy on his lap. “Ain’t been good at all.”

“Tell me,” John rumbled, watching as she dug around for something to get him clean. He knows her. He knew what she was up to. But she needed the distraction, so he was happy to listen to her version of the disaster.

“After you got arrested, things went straight to shit, quick.” She produced a deep bucket and threw a washcloth and scrub brush in it. “Buncha the men got on a boat meant fer Cuba apparently, but it went down and they got washed up somewhere down there. Came back a mess the likes I ain’t seen in a while and brought a bigger mess down on us.”

“And here?” John pressed, resting his chin on Jack’s head. Their boy was his characteristic quiet and was playing aimlessly with his father’s hands.

“Sadie and Charles hustled us outta Shady Belle and into Lakay ‘for a full day went by.” Hard blue soap, something to dry himself with— “Can’t imagine we’d all still be here if not for the two of them.”

“We ain’t all here.” John replied, his heart aching a little. If he spared more thought towards it, he would probably find himself crying somewhere, so he let his heart ache quietly before speaking again. “I’ll have to remember to thank Sadie. Pr’bably wasn’t easy.”

“She won’t care none for your thank yous,” Abigail smiled as easy as the sun rising. She was always right about the practicalities of being human, even when he wanted to ignore her and go about his business, whatever that was at the time. “Oh, and our lovely Miss Grimshaw shot Molly in the guts in fron’ta Jack. Seems she was ratting us out, but I don’t believe that for a second. Don’t make a lick of sense to me, but who am I, hm?”

John nodded glumly. Abigail had swept him into his tent before he could really react to Dutch and picked fresh clothing for him, because he simply wouldn’t think to get out of his rags yet. Her hands were soft when she squeezed his, a hand through his dirty hair, a hand on his scarred cheek. John let Jack loiter on his lap, his little face pressed into his chest, his heartbeat thudding against his son’s cheek. He was a scant bigger by John’s estimation, his brown hair coming down past his ears a little. He needed a haircut. He was going to need new shoes and a new pair of suspenders and Abigail, he glanced up at her dipping in and out of the tent again. He wanted her to have a new dress or three, a new slip and lace up boots. She wouldn’t ask for a thing, but she smiled so sweetly when he gave her something nice.

God, he was so damn tired.

“Why don’t you go and see if you can’t get your uncle Arthur to smile, Jack.” Abigail said after letting John linger in his quietness for a moment.

Jack gave a bobble-headed nod and dropped down from his father’s lap. “Pa, will you be here when I come back?”

“’Course.” John replied, startled. He shared a heavy glance with Abigail before shooing the boy off. “Go on then.”

Jack toddled out of the tent, appeased and Abigail sat down on the cot to bury her face in her hands. “Que vamos a hacer, John?”

John grunted. “Don’t know. If yer stressed enough to be talkin’ in Spanish, I’m sure it a real mess.”

“Hate to break it to you, but it's your damned Javier.” She picked her head up and plucked the string out of her tied back hair, making to re-secure it. “You know I don’t much like that man, and whatever happened when they got shipwrecked has him acting more out of pocket than usual. Dutch has been losing his mind for a long minute but Javier…”

John nodded, mostly to himself. He knew. Abigail and Javier were much too similar in the worst ways, ways that made them clash and butt heads in verbal spats that eventually gave John his grasp of Spanish. He loved them both, though. It was a troublesome realization, another one of his epiphanies that he had while in a half lucid state in jail.

He loved Abigail, he knew, loved her for exactly what she was doing now, reminding him that he was a person who needed things, not a weapon to be aimed where he’s needed and to be discarded when it’s jammed. He was a person, same as anyone else, and deserved a kind touch. He loved her gently, loved her for being half of Jack, loved her before that; but somewhere along the line that love grew soft and fond and indulgent. He gave to her. But he found himself unwilling to take.

Abigail doesn’t much like Javier. John knew. It was a point of what felt like endless contention for a long time, and it was his own fault at first. Abigail and Javier, he was sleeping with them both, for different reasons and with zero promises because he was twenty-two and at twenty-two, he believed that he would be spending his life with her, regardless of how things panned out with Javier. So, he didn’t make any promises, assuming it would be a given.

He could laugh at his younger self, thinking about that now.

John and Javier were lovers, in every sense of the word lovers; they spent the New Austin nights making love as the sun set behind the red cliffs, into the cool, dusty nights, talking in halting words about whatever crossed their minds, their lips pressed against the other’s when words failed. They spent time existing in each other’s space, creating something that was loyalty and affection, Javier’s rough hands wiping the blood off John’s face, John’s hands wiping the blood off his knuckles in turn.

They were on and off for some time, John’s indecisiveness making him stick his head in the sand about his feelings but he would always admit, there was a churning in him that bloomed red on his cheeks whenever Javier looked at him. It was the little things, the way Javier kissed right under his jaw, the way he flourished his notes a little more when he was playing guitar around John, his passion that flared whenever he cared about something, and Javier cared so deeply, with his entire being. John was lost in it. 

John probably fell in love with Javier the first time he finally said something that made the man laugh hard, bright peels of laughter that made John hide a bitten back smile behind his beer. They worked hard for what they had, a foundation of respect and affection, eventually turning into something passionate and loving, through his mistakes and their arguments and the times he’s wanted to pop Javier’s head off like a dandelion. He loved that man deeply, that kind of idiotic ‘do something insane for him, right now,’ sort of love, only tempered by the knowledge that Javier wasn’t impressed by stupid. John thought they had that sort of love that they could agree they weren’t letting go of, not for no one, not for nothing.

‘ ‘S probably why I’m ready to swing on him,’ John thought, lip curling when Javier’s passive, dismissive glance came to mind. It was like a sucker punch in the gut—not that he expected Javier lift him and swing him ‘round in front of everyone or anything but there was nothing. Coolness.

_Coldness._

“I know you can’t stand ‘em.” John’s fingers twitched. He wanted a cigarette—well, he wanted a _drink_ , but that wasn’t going to help a damned thing. “‘Cept that once or twice.”

Abigail didn’t flush anymore at the mention of “that once or twice”, instead snorting a little, like she was amused by the thought.

“Hopin’ a cougar gets you while you wash.” She replied, pleasant. John bit his inner cheek. “Chomps your dick clean off, it’ll do you some good.”

“Well that’ll save me figurin’ out what the hell I’m gonna do,” John grumped, and Abigail brushed his hair off his forehead.

“You’re gonna scrub the prison from your hide, use a scrub brush with real soap,” Abigail answered, getting to her feet. She was always stronger than him in that way, the little things that made a person move forward and to have the strength to try, every single day. “Eat something hot and have a lie down ‘fore anyone notices you’ve shut your eyes.”

“’S not what I meant.” John snorted though and leaned down to grab the bucket. “But you have a point.”

Abigail shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “Can’t help with Javier. Don’t want to on top of that; next time I hear him giving Arthur lip, I’ll give him a goddamn reason to be limping.”

Usually, John would laugh. They hated each other for the reasons he loved them, and typically it was his private amusement the way they circled each other like cats. Today though, he was ready to scoop them both up, grab Jack and run off to wherever Arthur went when he left camp. He got lost. That sweet freedom that John so very often craved.

He stood, giving Abigail an attempt at a smile. She smiled back, and the thought comes to John unbidden. ‘ _I have to get them out of here._ ’

They leave the relative safety and privacy of the tent to the tense and angry folk who still made up the Van Der Linde gang. Pretending not to gawk, as though John didn’t see eyes watch him, as though he would ever explain his personal relationships to a single soul. For a family, John found himself walking faster to escape the looks, obvious alarm and wariness plain as day on their faces. Even if John didn’t know them like he did, he knew damn well what judgement looked like, and he didn’t need it.

A quick sweep saw Jack at Arthur’s wagon, sitting near his feet. The boy was animatedly explaining something to Arthur, who was smiling at him indulgently. Tiredly.

When they arrived back to camp, Arthur was whisked away by Charles, who’s usually carefully neutral features were set in a deep and exhausted frown, ushering the older man to his cot. He brushed Arthur’s hair back, the easy affection between them obvious as Charles eased him back to rest, saying something John couldn’t hear, but made Arthur snort and wheeze softly. John assumed that Charles was probably the only reason Arthur was still on his feet, and made a note to corner him with gratitude later.

Beaver Hollow was the last place John ever expected to see them camped, but it was so clearly not meant to be permanent, not even to last longer than a few days. No one’s wagon was fully unpacked, and with the relative warmth of the area, John supposed there was no real reason to set up tents. Nothing more than their fires and bedrolls out, Pearson had the most put together area of the camp, and that wasn’t saying terribly much. With a dank cave full of god knew what behind them, John’s hurry from the camp was about more than just getting cleaned up.

He didn’t know much about the area around Annesberg, and he had only the vaguest knowledge of Roanoke Ridge, but he liked the area. Heavy trunked trees that rose yards above his head made for a dense, wild and alive forest. The Kamassa river cut freely through the state, full of fish, and bringing the surrounding woods full of wildlife to its banks. Save for the usual concerns, one could easily eek out a living here, somewhere deep in the woods where few bothered going to. John would be keen to, hiding out in the woods was becoming more and more appealing as the walls were seemingly closing in on them, but even before then, John had always been content to camp out.

Not eager to let his thoughts drift further out of his grasp, John focused on finding a shallow place to get cleaned up.

The warmth from the Lemonye side of the river didn’t extend to Roanoke. Not that Roanoke Ridge was cold, but it wasn’t a swampy, heavy heat, leaving the water brisk but not intolerable. Up to his hips was the highest John was willing to go for a damn bath, so once he dumped his jail rags, he eased into the water, filling the bucket to dump over himself.

Abigail gave him a scrub brush that he was happy to use, scrubbing his skin raw and clean. She was right, there was a layer of prison that wouldn’t come off without being out of there, and he felt grimy. Awfully so. He let his mind wander as he washed his hair but didn’t think of anything special or important. He had had quite enough thinkin’ and considerin’ and stressin’. He wanted to look at too tall trees, listen to birds chirping as they went about their work, watch the paranoid rabbits slowly making their way through the high grass; nature was beautiful regardless of how awful his life had come to be.

He spent a lot of time dwelling when he was in jail, his mind running rampant while he worked; he was a hard enough worker that he didn’t need to be told twice to do something, he was given a task, that he did all day, watched just like anyone else. It gave him time to think, though, roll over everything that had brought him to a state penitentiary, with his neck on the line on any given day.

Lenny was dead, a completely failure on everyone who made the damned decision to rob that fucking bank. His death was on all of them for being in a situation where they could fail so deeply that Lenny was used to taunt John while he was being interrogated. The agents seemed so pleased with themselves, having a young man’s blood on their hands, as if all the things that brought Lenny to that moment didn’t matter. He spat in their faces and took every punch, snarling instead of answering their questions.

John wouldn’t say a word.

Hosea was dead, a deep hole in his heart that had barely been sewn by the weeks of manual labor, and endless ache that still made him hurt now. He watched Hosea fall, tossed to the side like trash when he managed to get snatched by Pinkertons; the sound of gunfire, dynamite and screaming dragging him under until he woke with a hard slap across the face, and taunts about the nightmare that was horrifically real. For the first week, anxiety ate away at John, a mantra in his head of the lives lost and the blood on his hands. He never wanted this. He never wanted to rob a bank in the middle of a damn city, in the middle of the goddamn day! He could feel that anxiety again, making his heart jackrabbit against his ribs. He scrubbed at his skin harder.

Hosea was dead, and he didn’t want to deal with it. Hosea was dead, and now there was absolutely no one left to stop Dutch.

Finally, acceptably clean, and starting to shiver, John tried to wring out his hair, wincing at the pull, but refusing to walk around with it sopping wet.

Maybe he could send Abby and Jack away. A couple of packed bags, a pair of train tickets back out west where a living was easier to make, and they wouldn’t have to see his bloody corpse wherever Dutch would leave it. The gang was ending one way or another, either with the Pinkertons finally raining hellfire and bullets down on them, or everyone scattering away, terrified.

John sighed. Everything was fuckin’ terrible. He scanned the treeline once more before figuring he should get some dry clothes on, when he spotted Javier, mostly obscured the high bushes on the ridge. He was mostly out of sight, tucked under a cluster of trees on the bank, frowning like he was trying to figure what Uncle was talking about. If John had decided to simply shuffle off, he wouldn’t have noticed his lover under there. He wanted to make him smile, beacon him down, kiss his lips and find out what happened. Abigail could only know so much, and she tended to avoid Javier anyway.

Arthur’s warning came to him, his brother’s halting and quiet “You… should give Javier his space.”

Oh, Arthur knew about them, the same way that Arthur knew most of the things about John that he wished no one knew about, but Arthur only ever seemed to keep John’s secrets, regardless.

John didn’t want to give Javier his space. The first thing he damn well wanted to do when they got back was to get into Javier’s space, pull him in for a kiss, because he spent too long thinking his partner was out of his reach forever. He missed him terribly, like the awful ache of a shot limb, and he wanted to disregard Arthur’s words as not knowing the first thing about them but—

Javier’s cold stare was making John’s hackles rise. Javier’s eyes were usually so warm and full of life, a beautiful brown that John found himself often getting lost in, and for John, always full of love. Right now though, his gaze was passive, calculating, nearly devoid of the mirth and affection that was nearly always directed at John, none of the heat that usually came with his gaze when John happened to be naked. No, that was anger.

“See something you like?” John tried, collecting up the bucket and discarded cleaning supplies. “Or do I look like a slab of meat today?”

No response. Just Javier’s fingers drumming against the barrel of his repeater. Fine then. John wadded out of the water, looping the small towel around his hips, hoping anything would wipe that cold look off Javier’s face.

“I’m just here to make sure you don’t fuck off and run on us.” Javier said finally, making John squint up at him.

“What’re you—what? You gone stupid?” John snapped without thinking. “Run where? Do what?”

“I don’t know, I’m not the one with loyalty problems.” Javier’s words felt like a slap across the face. John flinched and moved behind a tree with a spectacularly wide trunk. Suddenly his nakedness felt deeply uncomfortable, and he shoved on his pants with more force than needed, stomping into his boots a moment later.

“Loyalty problems?” John seethed, fiddling with his suspenders. “Real shitty, since I was in goddamn _jail_ and didn’t run my mouth. I ain’t done shit, so don’t you go acting like I’ve done a goddamn thing.”

“Does bringing the local law down on us and bringing those fuckin’ pinkertons a step closer to camp count as doing something to me?”

“They was gonna _hang me_.” John enunciated sourly, stepping out from behind the tree. He was fully dressed again, his coat thrown over his arm, bucket in hand. “Woudn’t tell ‘em nothing. They’d hang me if I did, hang me if I didn’t, so I didn’t—”

“Yet, here you are.”

Javier had learned English quickly and, John always thought, to devastating effect. Whereas most would be verbose with their anger, long winded and hateful, pummel you with words until you broke, Javier’s words were like the knives he favored. Single, precise cuts in the right places that would leave you bleeding out before you even knew what had happened.

“You’re a mean sonovabitch, Javier.” John said simply, not daring to let his own temper fly free. It wasn’t worth the screaming match; the possible fist fight and words being said that he couldn’t take back. John would be damned if he was going to let what they had spent years building together be destroyed by whatever madness had taken the camp. “Lucky I love you anyway.”

Javier frowned with his entire body, eyes narrowed as if John were lying, or worse, as if John were telling the truth. He didn’t know what reasoning he liked less behind that frown, so John gathered his bucket and started back to camp, unsurprised when Javier got up after a few long strides and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic covers Chapter Six - Visiting Hours to Red Dead Redemption. goes back and forth between Javier and John as far as pov goes. abigail speaks spanish because she's white latinx. john cannot always respond, but he can generally sort out what abigail or javier are saying, and he may respond with a sort of uh... really formal spanish. 
> 
> thank you you to my-funky-little-cowboy for your beta work.


	2. and if so, I wanna know what time it shuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javier and John go fishing, shopping and argue. In that order, mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent a long time musing about the point of guarma, and how it felt like a deconstruction of dutch's dumbass idea that slavery and intense corruption and class warfare don't exist outside of the united states or what the fuck ever he was thinking when he was like “hehe let’s go to Tahiti” and how it was pissing me off because it was just a hellish shooting gallery. i usually abuse the shit out of deadeye for flashy killshots when I’m playing, so guarma was initially just me screaming “fuck offfff”. play through two (three?), i was paying much closer attention and actually you gotta look at javier there. javier is captured and tortured, and dutch is the one who enacts his rescue, going as far to carry the man over his shoulder. guarma was intensely about setting dutch up for javier (and bill!! and bill!!) to be on dutch's side to near deranged degree at the end of chapter six. without this little side take, javier would have wondered what was going on with dutch. without dutch legit carrying him away from death, javier may have been easier to speak to about dutch's failings. (maybe!!! he's v loyal!) i speak that into the universe because on god what the fuck javier. you literally said "why don't we pay people wages to support their families" and dutch said "native people are canon fodder for our escape".
> 
> youre literally always gonna be a better than him, javier.
> 
> thank you to my darling tully for the editting!! how you trooper through like 10k of cowboys that you don't even know, i'll never know but i love you.

Javier found his thoughts came slower in English, like he was grasping at knots with his nails bitten low. Some days his thoughts came easy as speaking, some days he’d rather just pester Abigail until the Spanish came to his mind faster, so he could tie up the strings of thought that waved loose. He didn’t though, and simply watched the camp move around, tense and wary like furious dogs.

Arthur left at some point while John was taking his sweet time in the river. The man never seemed to stick around long when he did appear in camp; just stopping by to make sure the women were fed and possibly to convene and plot with Sadie and Charles. That’s all he’s done recently—since Guarma, Javier’s mind supplied – appearing and disappearing at will, as though he had picked up some of Trelawny’s tricks. Tilly had spoken to him in hushed, terrified tones, Grimshaw gave him a tongue lashing that only seemed to drive Arthur farther away, and as much as Javier wanted to blame Arthur, he didn’t. Arthur was still there, despite whatever sickness seemed to plague him. If he truly wanted to leave, Arthur would be gone.

Or maybe, Javier didn’t know the man as well as he believed he did.

Dutch was wrapped up in his planning. Javier didn’t want to disturb the man when he was trying so desperately to keep their family together and safe. While others plotted and whispered amongst themselves, casting bitter glances towards his tent, tried to run their own way, or tried to rip them apart, Dutch remained steadfast for his family. All he had ever asked for was faith in his ability to keep them together, and trust that he was working with the family in his best interests in mind.

Javier had the faith and trust that Dutch wanted. With Dutch busy fending off attacks from all directions, even within his own damned gang, people split up into their own little factions for some form of protection. Ironic, considering what they needed protection from was each other.

The camp seemed to be moving in a dreary loop; quiet, lacking the furious whispers and periodic, shouting matches. Susan barked at the girls who barely seemed to have the energy to do anything besides scatter from her sight. Pearson fed them, but only seemed to talk to Arthur, who provided every few days or so. Dutch continued to promise them escape from the hole they found themselves in. Javier supposed he was taking too long to make the ladder.

No one seemed to believe him, which was the problem, in Javier’s opinion. No one trusted Dutch, but they needed someone to rely on, and someone to blame. If not Dutch, then who? Bill seemed to suspect a rat, and Javier understood that line of reasoning, the desperate desire to have _someone_ be the cause of their troubles, but Javier wasn’t entirely sure he believed it. Not completely. Not the way he believed Dutch would get them out of this.

“Well, would you look at you two traitors,” Bill seethed, making Javier’s head snap up. Speaking of the damned devil, but he didn’t notice Bill move, much less stroll right on up to John and Charles, who were leaning against a wagon companionably. “Can’t even be bothered to hide your scheming anymore, can you?”

Bill wasn’t being quiet. Javier flicked his eyes towards Dutch’s tent; the man himself was standing there, watching. Observing. No wonder Bill wanted to make a scene. Javier found that he picked some awful targets for this particular bout of posturing-- Charles had never cared much for Bill, and John—Javier could read his face. He wasn’t frowning, but his lips were set in a straight line, no doubt biting his cheek and holding it there. Whatever ire John had building for Javier could and would be let loose on anyone who crossed him.

‘Not that Bill cares,’ Javier thought to himself, watching as John turned to saunter away, unwilling to give Bill the time of day. Bill grabbed him. Javier looked down. If John’s temper got the better of him, as it tended to, Javier would like to be able to say ‘Nope, didn’t see a thing’ if anyone bothered asking what was going on.

They wouldn’t though. People he once considered family were scattered around, looking lost, hopeless, refusing to help themselves. He hated being alone, not when there used to always be someone he could court for attention.

“And who the _fuck_ are you grabbin’ on, Marion?”

Javier puffed, his shoulders heaving as John’s voice raised and he moved to get up. Whatever John had to say, Javier wasn’t all that interested in hearing it, true as it probably was. He caught Dutch waving at him from the other side of the camp, beckoning with a toss of his head. He looked behind him. John was eye to eye with Bill, a finger in his face, but since Dutch was waving him over, he went.

The man was puffing on a cigar when Javier strolled up, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn’t motion for Javier to sit, nor did Javier expect him to, so he waited, letting Dutch put on his airs as he so did.

“Micah and I were talkin’ about us today, talkin’ about the gang. Where we’re headed. Where we’re going. Together.”

Dutch looked less tired than Javier felt when the man caught his eye. Yet he doubted Dutch had slept much in the past few days. Probably had an entire pot of coffee at some point, enough to keep him jittery and awake when the growing dread hadn’t.

“If we’re going to move forward, we need to think forward. I will be moving forward with those who want to move forward with me, I’m not keeping a damn person that doesn’t want to be here. Only my family.”

“Course,” Javier breathed, rocking on his feet. “Thought that was obvious.” He added as a second thought. Dutch snorted, the ghost of a smile flitting across his lips before his face shuttered away.

“I’m thinking that I haven’t been as clear as I should’ve been; there ain’t any room for that. I’m being clear now: Either you’re with me, or against me. Either you’re staring down this threat with me, or you ain’t. You’re either family… or you ain’t.”

Dutch let the statement hang.

Javier scrunched up his nose. He wasn’t implying… He _wouldn’t_ , not after Dutch himself carried him from Aguasdulces. He won’t lie, he did not remember the escape from the plantation but, he does remember the jolt of Dutch throwing him over his back, Arthur’s voice barely audible over the rattle gun fire; he remembered waking and missing John like a punch in the chest. He always hovered around whenever Javier was hurt—

“I don’t think John got that memo,” Dutch continued, before Javier could get himself really worked up. “And I don’t think what I’m saying is getting through that thick skull of his, not with that woman whispering in his ear, too.”

“Oh.” Javier said. Dutch didn’t doubt him. It should have made him happier than it did, but he tucked that though away to be examined later, when he couldn’t sleep.

“She has it out for me, you know.” Dutch sounded mournful, as if he ever paid much mind to Abigail unless she _really_ demanded his attention. “I’m still finding it hard to believe it’s Hosea’s grave I had to visit and not hers. I ain’t losing someone else because of her, you hear me?”

“I’m sure you know how I feel about _Senorita Roberts_.” Javier responded, not entirely sure where Dutch was going with this. John was disloyal. Dutch said so himself on the boat back from Guarma, and Javier remembered it clearly, because it was the last time he saw Dutch show Arthur any sort of affection, as Arthur rested his head on Dutch’s shoulder, fast asleep. He said they would get back, round everyone up, and get things back on track, and that meant weeding out their problems.

Dutch snorted, beckoning for Javier to follow him into his tent. It seemed sparse, but with Molly gone, and most of their belongings still packed up, it made sense. Still, it was a little eerie to see how little surrounded Dutch. Just his cot, his desk, a lamp, and his his books, with Dutch himself sitting at the edge.

“I don’t want to lose my son, Javier. I’ve had John longer than his birth father; that boy is my son and I won’t let some woman take him from me when I need him most.”

Javier felt his stomach turn, empty and agitated. What did he need? Sometimes Dutch needed things, and didn’t know how to approach it, or sometimes he simply set out to have a conversation he had already mused out the answer to. He had the perfect conclusion to this conversation, but Javier didn’t have the other side of the script.

“You know, I always preferred him with you,” Dutch said a low tone, making Javier’s attention zero in on the man fully. He and John had generally been careful, keeping their affection explainable and their love outside of camp. He couldn’t fathom anyone caring enough to notice—but Dutch continued, easy as the early morning, like they were discussing Javier’s tasks in an upcoming heist.

“With that child being his, I thought, oh maybe, just maybe, John’ll grow up. ‘Course he didn’t. Never gave him a reason to when all I ever did was let him run from his mistakes then come crawlin’ back when it all came down around him. Now with you…”

“We aren’t—”

“John was about _family_ when he was with you. Never went scurrying off, never questioned anything. Now Arthur’s brought him back.” Dutch looked up at him, a plea in his eyes. “I’m certain I ain’t in any position to be giving relationship advice to anyone, but you’ve brought my boy back to me more times than I can count. For the sake of the family, Javier. For me.”

Javier swallowed.

“Oh, come now, you look like I’ve asked you to hurt him.” Dutch cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit, as though he was searching for something in Javier’s eyes. “You both kept it close to your chests and away from camp. I chose to respect that. I don’t _want_ to do this.”

“I know Dutch,” Javier raised his hands, trying to placate the other man. “It just seems like maybe things are getting tense for, well, everyone. No one is really acting like themselves, you know?”

“Do you think I want to doubt John?” Dutch sneered. “When you had him, I didn’t. Now he’s got that girl whispering in his ear how they could get out of here and be _ranchers_ and he’s _listening_ to her. I don’t much care how you bring him back, whether that be reminding him who _you_ are to him by getting him alone with you-- Or reminding him who _I_ am. You make it happen, Javier.”

Dutch dismissed people in the same way he captured their attention; quick and with an ease that left you wondering if you had a conversation with the man or if you were simply given an order. Javier didn’t bother trying to figure out which one happened this time, instead letting out a low, quiet sigh as he turned around.

Javier didn’t find John until early the next morning. The sun was creeping over the horizon, but it was still dark in the underbrush of Beaver Hollow. People were awake; Pearson, who was already pulling together breakfast, Dutch, who wasn’t sleeping, Micah, who didn’t sleep in general, and Arthur, who was gearing up to head out, his head ducked into John’s tent.

John had been back for maybe a week, a fortnight if Javier allowed himself a drunken night or two that he forgot. Shockingly, the wrath of the local law and Pinkertons had yet to rain hellfire down on them, their strange incompetency letting Mary Beth be able to scope out Annesberg during the week. She didn’t hear all that much, just the same sad story from miner after miner after miner’s wife. After their altercation at the stream, John had given Javier a wide berth, choosing to stand watch at opposite times and spending his down time sitting in his tent, frowning.

Before—and before could encompass anything before their tenseness at Shady Belle – John was always easy for him to find, regardless of John’s mood. He hummed to himself plenty, chattering with whoever wanted to talk to him, drunk or sober. He was a bit like Arthur in that way, the rough wariness in their stance made them oddly approachable.

Not today, though. Today, Arthur had stalked away, riding off into faint light of dawn, leaving John guarding the front of his tent. Javier tilted his head peer inside; Abigail was on the cot, boots off and her feet tucked under her as she focused on mending, Jack was fast asleep on and under a pile of blankets on the rug, thumb tucked in his mouth.

‘He hasn’t done that in a long while,’ Javier thought to himself as he steeled himself moved to cross the camp, trying not to wince as he took in John’s angry posture. He looked like a wolf guarding his den, angry and wary.

He glanced back at Dutch’s tent. Micah was leaning in, one arm moving animatedly as he yammered on to Dutch, who wasn’t looking at him, really. After a moment Micah stepped into the tent and the flap closed.

‘John wouldn’t cheat,’ Javier thought, giving shape to the thought that Dutch had put into his mind, blooming easily in already angry soil. But, he _wouldn’t_. John perked up at the sight of him, and Javier sighed a little. ‘He’s simple and sometimes he’s an ass but he wouldn’t—’

“You busy, John?” Javier asked, making John unfold his hands from his lap and look up at him. “We need ammo, and we shouldn’t be moving around alone right now.”

“Ammo?” John asked, his voice sounding scratchy instead of rough, like he hadn’t been speaking much recently.

“For our guns?” Javier cocked his head, as though John had simply forgot the concept. “Unless you’re planning to throw yours instead?”

“Oh, haha,” John muttered, making no motion to move. Still upset, then. That was fine. This was more for Dutch, anyway; Knowing John had every intention to abandon their family, to abandon _them_ the second he could was enough to begin the process that would deaden every emotion Javier ever had for John Marston.

“Well I ain’t sure if they’ve had a chance to update my wanted posted in some time, but if we need ammo,” John got to his feet, as easy as he always had when Javier asked something of him. “Let’s get going then.”

He leaned into his tent, catching Abigail’s attention. “Abigail, ‘m going with Javier to run some errands, apparently.”

“I can hear fine, you know.” Came her reply, making Javier huff softly. He always enjoyed the sound of Abigail’s low, twanging voice, even when it was filled with venom and sharpness. “Don’t forget your list since you’re going to town now.”

“It’s in my pocket. See you.”

Javier watched the exchange with some interest; the happenings of John and Abigail were of interest to him, especially now when…

Well.

Abigail nodded in a satisfied way as though she had gotten John to do something. Ugly jealously crept up in Javier’s throat, making him want to grab John and drag him away. It felt a little like the same insecure and frustrated feeling he had way back when John couldn’t decide if his feelings were for him _or_ Abigail. He couldn’t live with that again. He simply couldn’t.

With no one left to care about their whereabouts, the two saddled up and took off with nothing more than a curt nod from Sadie.

“Do you still keep your fishing rod on your horse?” Javier asked as they picked up a steady trot. Boaz was probably just as happy as he was to be out of camp.

“Yeah, it’s in my bag.”

“Good. We’re going to do a little fishing, because it’s still so early. The shops probably aren’t even open yet.”

“Good point,” John conceded, and Javier wanted to sigh. John was awfully trusting for a man who had barely said a word in nearly a week. Javier could have been bringing him to a shallow grave for all he knew, but John dutifully followed. Admittedly, Javier didn’t have much of a plan—he figured fucking John until he spilled his secrets into Javier’s shoulder, shuddering out whatever plans had had brewing and couldn’t resist telling Javier when they were together like that. It wasn’t an ideal plan—they had, well, rules, that came with being together. Rules that they made up when they were still young but kept with it because it always made sense.

There was a rule about their relationship, an obvious one, but one that was needed with their nosy family: their relationship was _theirs_. It was off putting to have to tug on the strings of their love for Dutch, but he supposed John had already broken that and Dutch -- well, he had carried Javier from death on his own two shoulders.

“Hey, Johnny,” he started, slowing Boaz to match Old Boy’s meandering gait. He expected a snapped response at the nickname, but John merely listened neutrally, head bobbing along with Old Boy’s steps. His scars had healed over more while he was in prison, his hair grown longer, and his eyes a little darker, but he was still John. Even when separated or ignoring each other didn’t change him like that.

“What?” he asked when Javier didn’t continue.

“Just checking if you were still awake. Once we get out there, we can stick around for a few hours, then head into town?”

“Alright,” John answered agreeably, patting his chest for a cigarette. “That’ll give us plenty of time to sit in silence.”

“We’re not gonna sit in silence.”

“I have a headache Javier, and I’d rather get shot than fight with you today.” John stressed, and Javier rolled his eyes. “I’m not kidding, ‘m not scrapping with you today, if that’s what you brought me out here to do.”

“Who’s fighting?” Javier asked pleasantly. John narrowed his eyes. “We need ammo, we need food, and we can’t just hope Arthur will ride in with everything we need.”

“He will.” Came the stubborn reply. Javier didn’t find himself disagreeing, and Arthur didn’t wavier. “But I needed to get out of camp anyhow. What’s the fishing like around here?”

“Decent, far as I know. Got you favorite salmon around I’ve heard, some aggressive pike. Big ones, from what I saw. You could probably chuck a knife at them.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of fishin’?” Javier looked over, and John was smiling a little, wry behind his bitten lip. It was always easy to talk to him; bantering until they were left laughing and tethering off their saddles.

“Oh, what do I know, though,” he went on, when Javier was too lost in his thoughts to answer. “Fishing, then Annesberg, cause Van Horn I know for a fact ain’t got shit in it. ‘Side’s a fence.”

“You have stuff for a fence?”

“Maybe. A fence has stuff for me, that’s for sure.” He bunched his reins up in one hand. “So why’d you ask me out here?”

“I told you. Ammo and fishing.”

“You don’t need me for that.” John chided, and he sounded annoyed now. “I don’t mind if you wanna be alone—”

“I don’t.” Javier snapped. Not yet, at least. He wasn’t doing this for _them_.

“Just stop bein’ vague and lyin’ to me, then.” John continued, so quiet that Javier wouldn’t have heard him if they weren’t riding so slow and close. “If you don’t love me no more then…”

“I do.” Javier blurted, the assertion tumbling from his lips before he could stop himself. John kept looking forward. This wasn’t how he expected this to go, he expected John’s anger and sharp tongue, something to make them angry enough to shout it out. Javier wasn’t the one to initiate sex generally, he usually found himself responding John’s to advances, often amused by how playful John was about it all. Sex was his love language in a way, John was physical and wanted to kiss and touch and make love as often as they could to show his affection and his love. He wanted to give.

He was doing it, even now, still talking and trying—

“Javier,” John pleaded, pulling Old Boy in front of Boaz, making the Paint snort in frustration. The two horses generally got on well enough; Old Boy was about as aggressive as John himself, which made Boaz tense at times, but John was a skilled rider and Boaz knew him. It was an easy trade off. Still, Boaz didn’t want to stop moving, and Old Boy was a damned brute of a horse. John’s face was set in a scowl, but his eyes were sad.

Pleading.

“Do we have to do this now?” Javier returned, rubbing Boaz’s neck.

“When then?” John demanded. “I gave you a week, and you just _look_ at me. You don’t even—You look at me like… like I ain’t yours anymore.”

Javier paused. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. They’ve fought before, when things were tense and they let it simmer too long, and they fought, but made it through in the end. Every time. No one noticed or helped them through it.

“Later.” Javier decided, not wanting to uncover and examine his feelings too deeply, beyond the habit of loving John. “Just… later, please, John.”

“No.”

“Come on!”

“Javier, we got maybe two fuckin’ days. Then we’re probably all gonna get shot.”

“Don’t be dramatic. If you really thought that, you would have ran off already.”

“Fuck off. I ain’t doing this with you later. We ain’t got later, asshole.”

Javier sucked his teeth; he would be damned to remember no one else quite could make him act senseless like John could. “Marston, you got a lotta mouth, you know that? You wanna run around with Abigail the second you get back, and then you want to turn around and make demands of me? Now you want to talk?”

John stared, brow furrowed, lip curled in disgust. He shifted on Old Boy, gathering his reins back up.

“Yer a real piece of work, getting upset that I’m talking to the mother of my child.” John hissed, turning his stallion back down the path. “I _looked_ for you. She was _there_ when I got back.”

Javier gave Boaz a little kick to get him going; John was leading now, his back ramrod straight, looking fit to spit poison. He wasn’t lying, Javier supposed. Abigail was right by John’s side when Arthur and Sadie brought him back, waiting. She probably knew that Arthur and Sadie had gone off to get him. Still.

“That’s not what I was talking about.” Javier hissed as Boaz caught back up to Old Boy. The Hungarian was a brute whenever John set his mind to be a brute himself, but the horse _knew_ Javier. The horses matched paces again without much direction, even with John looking dead ahead. “Don’t pretend you weren’t being strange with her at Shady Belle. This isn’t something new.”

John didn’t twitch. The horses plodded along, more or less unawares, tails flicking away the gnats that swarmed about. Fall had more than taken the area, but Roanoke seemed to cling to the remnants of summer, what with the warm days. Javier didn’t care for it, but still found it beautiful. His goal was the deep river that ran off Brandywine Drop, half because he knew pike would be just about anywhere and half because he knew John was fond of waterfalls, his exception to his aversion to water. Usually, John would be asking him to point out the flowers and weeds and herbs along the path. John would point out birds with his remarkable eyesight.

“Maybe you’re right, Javi,” John answered finally, having had let the silence stretch. “Maybe we should save this for later.”

John was stubborn, often about the worst things, or things he deemed important, but he always doubled down, with his jaw set in frustration. He was doing it now. And this time, Javier just let him be angry.

Boaz and Old Boy picked up a faster pace as their riders had gave on any sort of civil conversation. Morning was coming, pinks and oranges lighting up the sky and path, making Javier wish he had a way or anything he could say to break the awful silence that hung between the two of them, whether it be something he could do, or say. Time ticked slow as they went, trees slowly giving way to the rockier coast of the riverbed, and the lush, steep cliffs that made up the surrounding area. Usually, Javier would find it a moment to be savored, something he could tuck away, to be brought out later and reminisced about with John.

Silence now, though, as Boaz nudged his way through some low underbrush. It seemed like a decent place to fish, with the river pooling dark and deep under the falls. Javier could see the pike circling each other in slow, lazy circle circles, easy to see with their lightly colored scales.

“Let’s leave the horses here to graze,” Javier said when John pulled up beside him. “Up by the falls is real beautiful, don’t you think?”

“Remember when we got up and out to Donner Falls? Real good fishing and campin’.” John said suddenly, making Javier look over at him. He was leaning against Old Boy’s neck, admiring the falls with a blissful look on his face, as though he wasn’t just sour and pissed off a short time ago. “I do love a nice waterfall. I wanted to head back up to Donner ‘fore we left the area. Guess that don’t matter much no more.”

Boaz nickered when Javier patted his nose, calm to Javier’s tension when he needed it, slobbery and affectionate any other time. He was as dedicated partner as anyone else, and Javier kept rubbing him, a hand fluttering through his mane before he plucked his rod out of his saddle bags.

“Go ahead and eat,” John muttered to Old Boy, holding something out on his palm for him. “Fat ass.”

“So, Mr. Escuella, what do you need me doing?”

“Grabbing your fishing pole and trying to get some pike out of the river.”

“We’re subjecting Pearson to fish?”

“If I eat jerky stew one more time…” Javier sucked his teeth as he unfolded his pole. “I refuse to be held responsible for my actions.”

John snorted, strolling up to the river with all the swagger of someone who didn’t often bring bait on a fishing trip. “He’s trying his best, considerin’ all things.”

“Ah well. We’ll be eating fish in the island, so he better get used to it.”

A snort. “Do you have any bait?”

“Did you come with me on a fishing trip without bait?”

“I brought a _lure_.” John replied, and he was almost smiling. He really did love a pretty waterfall. “I don’t know what pike like.”

“Lures, actually.” Javier dumped his bag on a nearby rock. “So you’re good, for now.”

They casted off.

“Say, uh,” John started, after a while of silence. He was being his typical quiet when he was angry about something, but Javier knew he could be hard pressed not to speak when they were alone. “What happened to your leg?”

“What?”

“You’re favoring your right leg.” John clarified, looking at the water like if he happened to look at Javier something would happen to him. Maybe it would. “Or just limping, I guess.

“Ain’t a shock but slavery is still a popular choice for capitalists,” Javier spat, but he wasn’t angry anymore. He already knew that. “It was a clean shot. It’s just sore to walk on.”

“Alright.” Was John’s quiet reply. That was that, Javier reckoned, feeling the slightest tug on his pole. John’s face was set in a thoughtful frown, whatever thoughts he had was certainly not on fishing. Once, Javier would have coaxed it out of him. He would have gotten John to smile, got him to sit close and lean against his side. Eventually, John would mutter what was on his mind, annoyed and gruff. They would work it out. Javier can remember the time John came to him, before he ran for an entire year. He was contrite, sour, frowning. But Javier coaxed the stress out of him, gave him words where he couldn’t articulate. He knew how it felt to want to speak but being unsure about how to put it together.

“Ah shit,” John grunted, the spool on his pole spinning out wildly before he got a grip on it.

“Got something?” Javier asked, amused.

“Feels—Feels like it’s got _me._ ” John wheezed, pulling up his pole just _so_ , an adept copy of Javier’s own stance.

“Just don’t—”

“Break the fuckin’ line, right!”

Early mornings made for some of the best fishing; the insects dancing above the deep blue waters made the fish leap and jump at nearly any bait that crossed their hungry paths, tantalized by a flick of the wrist. Javier’s favorite memories involved John, fishing, and waterfalls—their first afternoon spend together, the first time Javier asked something of John, the first time John said yes, the first time they kissed. The soft, misty feeling that came with those feelings made it easy for Javier to reach through the angry buzzing space between them and wrap an arm around John’s waist, hauling him back as he pulled on his catch, grunting when he felt what John was struggling against.

“Wait, just—” Javier shifted his feet, behind John to give him a sturdy place to lean against. “Yeah, thanks, I think I got ‘em—”

“This better be a _big_ salmon,” Javier grunted, gasping ass the fish foolishly leapt, heaving itself up and onto the shore, sending Javier and John tumbling back, John’s broad shoulder’s knocking the air out of Javier’s lungs. The pike flopped uselessly, having jumped too far onto shore to make it’s way back into the river, it’s scales shining in the glistening in the morning sun, it’s gasping mouth a mockery of the way Javier wheezed under the bulk of John’s shoulders.

“If I get up and see it’s a pike, I’m gonna be mad,” John said, sounding mostly amused, but wholly alright, alright enough that Javier found his arms easily settling heavily around John’s hips. He squirmed after a second, trying to wiggle out of Javier’s grip.

“Lemme go,” John complained, pulling Javier’s arms off him, and rolling to his feet. “Jesus, it’s still alive. Fuck.”

Javier stayed laying on the ground.

“’Course it’s a pike.” John grouched nearby. Smacked it with the butt of his revolver.

“Nothing wrong with flakey fish,” Javier responded without thinking, a note of cheer in his voice. Of course John caught an abnormally large pike that threatened to tug them into the goddamned river. Of course he did. That’s what John did, something mundanely unspeakable and often vaguely hilarious.

“It almost yanked me into the river!”

“A fitting punishment for a man with _fish_ preferences,” Javier sat up, debating whether or not to focus on fishing or to do as Dutch asked. John wasn’t that much of a liar; he would insist, stubbornly, sometimes with a lick of that rough charm of his, on the story he was spinning until his target relented, but John wasn’t a con man. John didn’t lie to him, ever, and typically, Javier didn’t lie to him, either.

“Wait’ll you see the size of this sucker, though. We could pr’bably be done right now if we wanted to be.”

Dutch had no reason to lie, either. At least not when he still needed John. Dutch had pointedly mention he preferred John with him. If John stuck around, just based on Dutch still needing him, maybe they could figure out what exactly went wrong.

It wasn’t that he wanted to lose John, or that he was sick of him, or finished with him.

That was what he desperately wanted to avoid, if he wanted to be honest with himself, even if he saw it as an almost inevitable part of their relationship. John would leave him for Abigail. John would leave him for his family, the mother of his child, and his son. Holding John at an arm’s length was just keeping his own dignity in line, but he couldn’t for the life of him understand why John felt the need to burn them all for her?

Javier shook his head and got to his feet. Dusted off the back of his pants and his back as best he could, and resumed fishing. Pike made for plentiful food, they wouldn’t need many to have a few days of fish instead of heavy venison stew. After John managed to heave his catch onto Old Boy, he sauntered back over and went back to fishing himself, catching a smattering of flakey perch that he tossed in a bucket.

Silence wasn’t their thing. A comforting quiet, maybe. The hazy, sated hush of their lips meeting again and again. Their fingers sliding together when they couldn’t articulate the swell in their chests. Not this.

It was nearing noon when the fish finally stopped biting, and John didn’t make much of a peep besides asking for crickets or corn. He rarely remembered anything beyond his pole and lure, but he also rarely went fishing without Javier, who wouldn’t go fishing without bait.

Old Boy and Boaz were drinking from the river about a quarter mile down the shore, snorting at each other as though they were having a conversation that they didn’t want their riders to be privy to, going quiet as they were loaded with pike and a sack of smaller perch and blue gill.

“We headin’ into Annesberg now, right? I didn’t get much of a look at it on my way in from Sisika.” John pulled Old Boy over to Boaz. “Guess we’re gonna find out if they updated my wanted poster or not. I doubt they’ll get my scars right.”

Javier snorted, guiding Boaz out of the rocky shore and onto the dirt path. “Do you remember your charges?”

“Eh,” John replied, hips swaying in time with Old Boy’s saunter. “Robbery, murder, kidnappin’; but I’m pretty sure I’m more of an accessory to kidnappin’ honestly.”

“Fucker.” Javier snickered.

“Arthur’s got updated to include arson, from the Grey’s deal, I think.”

“The noose is getting tighter on him.”

“I like to think Arthur stopped thinkin’ like that when he hit two thousand. Apparently, his bounty is fifty-five hundred dollars right now.”

Javier whistled low. He hasn’t seen his personal bounty in years. It wasn’t something he liked to think about often, it almost felt a little too prideful finding any pleasure in it. He slanted his eyes in John’s direction, as he continued talking.

“Yeah, the Pinkertons were real eager to let me know they were cashing in on that whether I told them anything or not.”

“Did you?” Javier asked, when John went quiet again. The man turned in his saddle and looked at him, brows drawn low and resentful, lips in a flat line.

“I think maybe we should go back to not talkin’.”

They didn’t speak again for well over an hour, taking their time through the hills of Roanoke, riding the well-used path down to Annesberg, only pausing when John warily pulled up to the city’s boarders, squinting at a nearby building. He nodded to himself, and the pair made it to the main street without a passing glance from the residents.

“Ammo first,” Javier decided, waving John over. “There’s a gunsmith over there.”

John merely nodded as they found hitching posts for their horses to get settled on, and John pulled his satchel from his saddle. “What do we need?”

“Rifle and repeater rounds,” Javier answered, John held the door open for him, making his lips twitch as he went on. “I think we’re out of everything that matters.”

“Figures. Everybody wants to use, but no one wants to replace.” He bobbed his head at the gunsmith himself, and Javier stepped back to let John talk. “How’s the day?”

Javier moved to examine the shop’s wares, admiring the Litchfield on the wall with the scoped addition. A man could do some damage with that. He had been thinking about upgrading for some time now. Ever since the camp got their selection of bolt action rifles—they weren’t anything Javier was interested in. For long distance, a good repeater is all he wanted.

“Stockin’ up there, are you son?” The gunsmith asked, obviously wary of John making the camp’s orders. A single man simply didn’t need the amount of bullets he was ordering, Javier supposed, but he also supposed the man should be grateful for the income instead of questioning.

“Coupla fellas and I were lookin’ to clear those Murfrees out farther, and get the ones that scattered,” John offered. “Seems their little cave hide out got cleared out and they’re held up elsewhere.”

“As I breathe,” the man gasped, bringing his hands up to his mouth. “Oh, you must’ve heard about young Meredith, then? She got brought back by some kind soul. Said he cleared out and scared ‘em off. I’ll take the rest of them fallin’ to a shogun, especially if it’s buckshot sold by me.”

“We’ll do ya proud sir,” John said, all rough charm and smirking confidence, he glanced back at Javier, who rolled his eyes. By the time the gang had made it to camp, Charles and Arthur were already deep in the process of moving the bodies of those revolting inbred horrors to be burned. The man seemed to relax after that, placing the boxes of bullets in a paper bag and kept trying to chat with John who mostly seemed to want to answer in grunts or “here and there.”

“Well, say, If I get a confirmation, your next gun and engravin’ are free to you, friend.” The man agreed. “I’ll have the rest of your orders done in some time. Take your time with the catalogue.”

“Thank you.” John hummed.

“<What are we waiting for?>” Javier asked in Spanish, so he could speak freely. Folk didn’t seem to mind him speaking in Spanish so long as he was talking to a white person. “<You don’t want this man looking at you too long.>”

John looked down and to the side for a moment before responding, probably caught off guard. He wasn’t likely to respond in Spanish—his vocabulary didn’t quite work like that. He could understand decently enough, but always seemed insecure when he or Abigail pressured him to try and talk to them, so they accepted his English as close enough to learning. Once in awhile, though, he would reply in clear, easy Spanish. It always made Javier a little proud.

“I uh, dunno how to say engraving.” John said after a moment. “Waiting to get a gun engraved.”

“Grabado.” Javier said, leaning against the wall near the door. “<That’s quite the yarn you’re spinning.>”

“He speakin’ Mexican?” the gunsmith asked, quickly becoming agitated again. “You Mexican, fella?”

“He is,” John snapped, stepping in the man’s field of view. “How’s that engraving coming along, huh? Sure is pricey, ain’t it?”

The man grunted, taking the veiled threat for what it was. Satisfied, John strolled over to where Javier was standing, arms folded.

“<You’re a good liar,>” Javier said, and he wondered why he was doing this. Digging into all the cracks that John showed him, revealing all the soft bits under it and for what? He knew John.

Dammit, he _knew_ John.

“<I was not lying,>” John replied clumsily, but unphased, now. “<I know Dutch does not trust me. He has made up his mind about that and I am not looking to change it. Am I foolish to ask you to trust me? Is that too much for you, now?> Jesus.”

They went quiet again, and Javier toyed with the idea of keeping his lover. John was mad, that much was clear, but Javier didn’t think he wanted to be mad. Not the way Javier wanted to be furious at him, but couldn’t. Wouldn’t stay mad.

Eventually, the gunsmith finished up the engraving job and John took a wrapped rifle, a revolver that Javier couldn’t quite make out and slung his own Lancaster back over his shoulder. “<Can you grab that bag?>” he asked, nodding to the bag of ammo on the floor.

“Thank you for your help, sir.” John said, nodding at the gunsmith, who was all smiles for him.

“Do let me know about those Murfrees!” he called as John and Javier left the store. John looked fit to rob a bank, with two rifles and a new revolver on him, and at any other point in their lives, Javier would have laughed.

“Alright then, ammo, check; breakfast and lunch for tomorrow, check.” John strode over to load Old Boy up, securing his new guns, and slipping his new handgun into his holster. “Just gotta stop by the train station since I’m here anyway. You need anything?”

Javier didn’t care for the town of Annesberg, even with the notably beautiful forested areas and deep, clear pools of water that ran outside the town proper. Everything in the town was polluted, and for precious little reason, to boot. He wanted to go back west, same as anyone in the gang did, back to when life made sense, back when he wasn’t annoyed at the prospect of John buying a train ticket, or two.

“I don’t need a train ticket, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m thinkin’ you’re needing _something_ alright, but you’re not gonna get it at the rate you’re goin’,” John replied mildly, adjusting his hat. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Javier leaned against the side of the station. Per usual, John left him feeling exposed and somewhat annoyed with a single comment, as he did when he had reached the end of his rope. Dutch wanted him to get in between John’s legs, hoping the throes of passion would loosen his lips, but Javier couldn’t help but feel wrong about it. That’s not what they were.

He shook his head. What was he doing, anyway? Making sure Dutch had an extra gun, for whatever plan he had brewing? Wouldn’t his time be better spent making sure John wanted to be near him anyway? He wanted answers, but he wanted John more than that.

“Goddammit,” he swore, patting his vest for his pack of cigarettes. He almost wished John had ended up in the islands with them. It wouldn’t have been perfect, what with their Shady Belle tension and, well, everything else going on, but Javier would have had John still.

“Alright, let’s get these fish back to camp,” John said, plucking the unlit cigarette from Javier’s fingers, startling the man. “Fella at the desk mentioned being fussed about incoming government folk—said they’re always rude city slickers.”

“Pinkertons?” Javier asked, lighting a match for John, who leaned in gratefully.

“Pr’bably.” He turned, blowing out a plume of smoke before heading back down to the gunsmith’s shop. “I’m sure I’m gonna be headed back down into town again until we’re out of here.”

“I’m hoping we don’t have to come back here either,” Javier tilted his head, following John down the street. “Did you forget something?”

“Nah, just wanted to grab the paper while we’re here.” John nodded at the paper boy, fiddling in his pockets for change. “Anything interesting, fella?”

“So folks is sayin’,” The boy replied after John handed over the payment. “I’m ain’t much of a reader mister, I’m just supposed to be sellin’ the papers.”

“I’m sure you hear folk talking though?”

“Well sure. Law’s supposed to be cracking down on the gangs in the area, but anyone knows they’re only pretending to care ‘cause they think they got Dutch’s boys cornered.”

“Ten years and they finally think they got ‘em eh?” John folded the paper and tucked it away neatly into his satchel.

“Don’t give a damn ‘bout no Van der Lindes,” the boy replied, sour. Javier peered at the kid a little closer; he was a freckled little whippet of a boy, not a single strand of hair on his chin but he could feel it—this kid has fought grown men before.

“We’ve had the Murfrees murderin’ and kidnappin all over Roanoak fer years,” he steamed, but his face was still relaxed, as though he was still selling papers. “Meredith got brought back by some rough lookin’ gunslinger instead of the damn Marshall. And why do you think that is, mister?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” John answered, eyes dancing with amusement. Rough looking gunslinger weren’t even the half of it.

“’Cause the gotdamn Marshall got taken by the Murfrees too! What’s the point of the law? We’re dyin’, and they’re upset cause the rich are getting _robbed_.” The boy scowled something fierce, and Javier felt his anger. Barely a teen and already more than aware of what the law in the America really cared about.

“You got a good head on your shoulders, kid.” John smiled and the kid grinned back. “They ain’t looking for a lost girl, but the outlaws robbing the rich are the problem, _they’re_ worth calling the Rangers, ain’t they?”

“Exactly!” the boy squalled, as though he had been repeating his thought all day. “It ain’t hard to understand why no one gives a damn about the law ‘round here.”

“I getcha.” John said, and the boy gave him a thumbs up. “You have a nice day, you hear?”

“Will do, fella.” He winked before plastering a smile back on his face and resumed his selling to the soot covered residents and wayward travelers of Annesberg.

“What was that?” Javier asked as the pair untied their horses.

“Kids his age ain’t got much else to do than listen to adults gossip, but they’re kids so they ignore the meaningless bullshit and just get to the point. I needed to know if the Pinkertons were close by and they are. Rangers too.”

“Guess that’s fair.” Javier said, more to Boaz’s mane than anything else.

“Now, do you wanna see if we can eat in town?” John asked. Javier glanced over at him, and he looked so _hopeful_. Couple of hours ago, Javier would have said no instantly, watched John’s face crumple and berate himself for doing it. “I know mining towns are shit about a stiff drink, but maybe we’ll find something nice to eat.”

“I think… we’ve spent enough time away from camp,” Javier started slowly, wincing when John’s expression shuttered and evened out. “For now, I mean. We uh, we do have to get the fish back—”

“That’s not what you mean, and I’m running out of fuckin’ patience with your shit,” John hissed, and Javier briefly considered shoving him out of his saddle. They were exactly one shitty word from a full blown shouting match in the middle of town.

“My shit? _My_ shit?” Javier pulled himself up into his saddle. “I just think maybe you should think about the _whole_ family. Not just _your_ family. All of us.”

“Who said I ain’t?” John snapped, pulling Old Boy onto the road. “Where the fuck’re you getting off with this? Either say what you mean or shove it up your ass, Javier.”

“You think sneaking off with Abigail and Jack is real brotherly?” Javier hissed the moment he caught up to John, just outside of town. The path between the road and the train tracks crossed briefly, and Javier waited until they crossed before continuing. John’s silence was _infuriating._ “You don’t get to just—fucking act _shocked_ if someone asks you about loyalty when you’re buying train tickets, when you’re pretending you love _me_ , or that you care about _me_.”

Javier had seen John murder, often, in violent gun fights with nearly unbeatable odds—John was on the Blackwater Ferry, after all. Whenever Javier thought of John, he was smiling in his private way that was meant just for Javier but in this moment, he was every bit of the wanted outlaw on the run that the law claimed he was.

John’s smile had shuttered, before, like the wind whipped it away, leaving anger and surprise burning in his eyes. Now there was nothing. Just steely grey circling blue.

“What happened to your loyalty?”

“Marston? What’re you doing down there?”

John turned as Javier looked past him—Arthur was trotting down the beaten path, armed and wary as he came upon them. John still looked furious, a look that Arthur didn’t look away from, instead meeting the glare head on. He frowned just as hard, and quick snap of a facial expression that made John look away, his face evening back out to neutral before Arthur spoke again.

“What’re you two doing down here?”

“Out fishing,” Javier replied, as John said “’Munitions run, nosey. Got me a new revolver.”

Arthur glanced in Javier’s direction, their eyes clashing briefly before he turned his attention back to John. Javier didn’t know when John and Arthur made up—around Shady Belle, he reckoned. The process of getting Jack back and taking out Bronte seemed to fill whatever rifts that had grown between them. Dutch believed they were conspiring together, but Javier always felt that if Arthur were fixing to leave, he would. If he truly no longer cared about Dutch, he would leave, that would be that.

Arthur did like his money, though.

“…It’s cute.” Arthur said, making Javier refocus on the two of them.

“Not everyone needs a shot gun, old man,” John spun his new gun around his finger. “LeMats reload too slow.”

“Use two then,” Arthur replied, making John snort. “Or miss less. I ain’t giving you shootin’ lessons again.”

“Why’re you here, Arthur?” Javier asked before they started bickering again.

“I’m here to meet with Dutch.” Arthur’s answer was all business, gang member to gang member coolness. “Said he needed me down here for some business, so here I am. Y’all said fishing and ammo, and I ain’t questioning that combination, so let’s extend that trust both damn ways, shall we?”

Javier held his hands up in faux surrender as John looked between them. “Seems we all have shit we should be doing, so—"

“…Alright then.” Arthur looked sickly against his worn blue shirt and black hat, his eyes watery and red rimmed when he tilted his head back. There wasn’t much going back when it came to Arthur, he was steadfast in a way that meant he was always moving forward and would be until he stopped. “I’ll see you fellas back at camp.”

“Don’t get followed,” John said in a voice that Javier recognized as his ‘riling Arthur’ voice.

“You’re the one going back to camp, dumbass.” Arthur replied instead of a farewell. He was gone with a flick of his Turkoman’s golden tail.

“Don’t think Arthur likes me much anymore.” Javier said, more to say it aloud than anything else. Arthur most certainly wasn’t interested in a conversation, much less anything else. It hurt, in that vague way, the way it hurts when you lose someone you cared about in any sort of abstract way. Death was final, absolute, but distance, desires, decisions—they were abstract. Loss, in their own way.

“Arthur moves in mysterious ways.” John replied off-handedly. Javier wasn’t sure if it was a reply, or John was also lost in his thoughts. He didn’t offer an explanation either way.

They didn’t speak. Their silence held until passed Annesberg, John clearly deciding to take the long way round back to camp, taking the path that followed the Kamassa back. If Javier wasn’t used to John’s use of “I can’t be damned to argue with you” moods, he would assume he had finally crossed a line with the man with how he pointedly stayed a few paces behind, frowning something awful whenever Javier turned to look at him. Without any stops, they made it back to camp well before the sun was moving downwards on the horizon, enough time for Pearson to have the fish prepared for dinner.

“I can give fish to Pearson,” John said as they slowed to a stop in front of the hitching posts. “I can take care of Boaz too, just get off your leg.”

Javier grunted his agreement; John was more than capable of tending to Boaz, who he knew had been eating all day anyway. His leg _was_ aching, and he knew John was trying to shoo him away, so he made his way over to the ladies side of the camp, hoping to either hear their quiet, soothing gossip or to at least experience a moment of peace before being made to face his awful conflicting thoughts again.

“Oh, Javier,” Karen called from under one of the larger trees. She had her head resting back against the bark, and he wouldn’t lie—she looked a little green, but she was swirling her tin cup dutifully. “Come sit.”

Karen didn’t just ask for his attention for no reason; the ladies all had their favorite man that they would ask for protection or doting from regularly, ever seemingly celibate Arthur was at the top of the list, but Javier never felt like back up. They simply came to him for other things, other topics that maybe Arthur wouldn’t be the best man to talk to about.

Javier knew perfectly well what had happened to Karen while she was out of his sight—she slipped further into the bottle, hoping to see Sean at the end of it. He held very little pity for her, instead holding on to hope that she would crawl out, that she knew his hand was offered figuratively as well as physically, but he understood the grip despair could have on a person. She wouldn’t want his pity. She had been the first to sway to his side once he returned from Guarma and noticed his limp before Bill started belly aching about it as well.

Karen patted next to her and Javier went, squatting down next to her with his arms outstretched over his knees, his back resting against the tree. He missed her. It had felt like a candle had been snuffed out most days, only to be kindled by inciting a sort of drunken rage in her that incurred more pity than fear. The camp stretched in front of them, their once happy family moving like startled deer through the last of the daily chores, and for a second, he wondered why he and John came back so quickly. Karen scooted closer before speaking lowly.

“What’s town like?” she asked. The coffee in her cup wasn’t strong enough to hide the whiskey, so he offered her a cigarette and pointed to her mug. She curled her lip, and for a moment, he thought she was going to pinch him or worse, but she snatched the cigarette and he took the mug. Took a long drink.

Her drink was more whiskey than coffee, but at least the coffee masked whatever swill Karen had taken to drinking. It went down hot, wasn’t enough to get him more than buzzed yet and he tossed her a pack of matches before answering.

“Annesburg is a mining town, so there ain’t much to look at.” Javier said, taking another gulp. She wouldn’t get up to get more if he drained the mug. “Oily rivers, pissed off miners and no saloon. I wouldn’t rob anyone down there neither.”

“Huh.” She said, flicking ash. She looked a little less green, now. “Then what’re we doing here?”

Javier finished off the mug. He would be feeling that, hopefully enough to fall asleep for a short while before Pearson banged the pot for food.

“Dutch says he has a plan.”

“Naturally,” She drawled. “And I ain’t questionin’ that, cause I don’t much care, but you just said to me that there ain’t no one around here worth robbing. Cause we’re around a mining town, right?”

Alcohol in the middle of the day wasn’t surprising around camp, moreso if someone had something they wanted to get off their chest, or a bone to pick with someone else. But Karen was candid even when she was sober, so Javier was curious where she was going with this.

“Right,” he answered, cautious.

“So we should go somewhere worthwhile then.” She puffed at the cigarette. “Whatever happened with retiring to Tahiti? That sounded nice.”

Javier chuckled, and it sounded hollow, even to his own ears. “Yeah, I liked the idea of Tahiti too.”

“Was a pretty dream, but I figure if y’all are back from the islands, there might be something down there we gotta avoid.”

“Capitalists, mi bella,” Javier replied, rubbing his eyes. “We’re on the run from capitalists.”

Karen snorted, an inelegant sound that made smoke pour from her nostrils. “That’s who we’re always runnin’ from.”

“Maybe they should stop chasing.”

“Maybe.” She flicked ash again. “Can’t say I’m ever gonna be tired of pissin’ off the rich. That’s the exact shit I live for but I...”

Javier perked up a little. That sounded more like old Karen. “That’s the kind of thing Dutch would love to hear from you, you know.”

“I’m just so sure he would.” Karen said, no particular inflection on her voice. Though her words seemed to imply an attitude. “But, I haven’t got much to say to Mr. Van der Linde anymore.”

Annoyance bubbled up quick in Javier’s throat, and he thought to simply get up and leave—Tilly never had a bad word against Dutch—but Karen continued.

“That little weasel he’s got in his tent keeps rilin’ him up.” Karen sniffed, and Javier shifted off his feet, sitting more comfortably.

“Arthur got you on that shit with Micah too?”

“I ain’t seen or talked to Arthur in days,” Karen snapped, a spark of something flashing dangerously behind her eyes. “You think Arthur’s running to _me_ about _Micah_? I’m talking about how ain’t no one in Dutch’s tent but whoever he’s fucking and Hosea, and you’re talking to me about _Arthur_?”

“Right,” Javier allowed, feeling shamed. She was right. Micah was in Dutch’s tent an awful lot, and she wasn’t outright blaming Dutch for anything. He knew Karen claimed she wasn’t scared of Dutch, but Javier’s never seen her on Dutch’s bad side either.

“I’m saying Molly’s dead. Hosea’s dead.” She flicked the butt, stamping it out with heel of her boot. “What the hell is Micah doing in Dutch’s tent?”

There were things that Javier wanted to say, that it wasn’t their business, or that Micah had just been supportive where Dutch’s own so called sons doubted him at every turn. There were things he wanted to believe, that Micah and Dutch were plotting the gang’s next move, that Micah’s support had naturally led to him being able to fall in line as Dutch’s second.

It all tasted like ash in his mouth.

“I couldn’t tell you.” Javier replied. “I don’t like to think about Micah if I don’t have to.”

“He, and that pathetic sack of shit Williamson got Sean killed.” Karen said, calm and matter of fact. “I won’t forget that, and I won’t forgive them.”

Javier had heard the many sides to Sean’s sudden death. He knew the common threads of the situation. He sighed, hanging his head between his arms.

“Reckon you ain’t wrong.” He admitted, finally.

“I know I ain’t. Though I am drunk, I ain’t stupid.” Karen tilted her head, her blonde curs terribly sleep mussed and unkempt from a night of tossing and turning and a day of not caring about it. “Though I am hungry. Stomach’s feeling pretty raw.”

“I’ll get you some hot cakes from this morning if there’s any left. And if you have some plain coffee—”

“With sugar,” she corrected.

“With a little strawberry syrup, if you don’t tell no one what we’ve been talking about.”

Karen looked like she was considering her option before she nodded and stuck her hand out to shake, and Javier took her hand in his as he got to his feet. She looked up at him, much less green now, and far more steady.

“Well obviously,” she answered, rolling her eyes. She held her hands up for Javier to help her to her feet and she raised her arms high above her head to stretch. “Now you promise me something.”

“Hm?”

“You happen to find out why Micah’s been in Dutch’s tent so much, you let me know, you hear?”

Javier reckoned she deserved to know. He couldn’t fathom what should do what the information—‘Kill Micah.’ His brain supplied, incredulous that he would bother wondering. As long as she exacted her revenge after whatever the last job was, he wouldn’t shed a tear for Micah meeting the end of Karen’s revolver.

“You’ll be the first to know.” Javier replied and Karen nodded firmly.

“’m gonna go to my tent.” She said, tossing a wave over her shoulder as she ambled in the direction of the tent she shared with the rest of the girls.

Heading over the Pearson’s wagon, John was nowhere to be found. He _had_ been around, however, evidenced by Tilly scaling the perch and bluegill, while Pearson butchered the couple of large pike they had brought in. Javier looked around for the morning’s breakfast, and spotted the soft honey soaked cakes that usually went with Pearson being awake early covered in a cheese cloth near the back of the wagon. They weren’t warm anymore, but they were still soft, and if Javier were straddling that balance of hangover and drunkenness, he would appreciate it. Besides Tilly and Pearson, no one else loitered around the wagon or bothered to helped with dinner, so he made himself busy, sliding two of the honey cakes onto a plate to be warmed by the fire. Coffee was always ready to be brewed, which just left the waiting around. He hissed as he squatted near the fire again, bemoaning the fact that he’d been ignoring John telling him to go rest his leg.

“Hey there, Javier,” said Tilly, coming up behind him. She was looking down at him evenly, like she couldn’t quite decide if she wanted to speak to him or not. He supposed he deserved that. John wasn’t the only person he had been tough on recently.

“Hello, Ms. Tilly,” Javier tried. “How’s the day?”

“Fine as it can be.” She turned her attention back to the piled of scaled fish in front of her. “Thank you for the change in meat, but ain’t you gonna eat any?”

“What?” he looked at the reheating honeycakes and shook his head. “This is for Karen. If I get food in her before she gets more drink in, the less room she has for drinks.”

Tilly smiled a little, both sides of her dainty lips curling upwards. “Well, I’m happy someone else is lookin’ in her direction.”

“There an empty can of strawberries near you?” Javier asked, instead of answering. The promise not to talk about it when both ways. Tilly handed him a half full tin wordlessly before stabbing her scaling knife into the butchering block and wiping her hands.

“Now don’t get upset Javier,” she started, clasping her hands together.

Javier groaned, pouring a liberal amount of the thick strawberry juice into the tin cup. “Good start.”

“I didn’t want to catch you off guard,” she admitted, before he features scrunched up in annoyance and she folded her arms. “I don’t like what’s gotten into you Javier, and it don’t have a damn thing to do with me.”

It didn’t, he supposed, adding sugar to the juice. He was still frustrated with John, goddammit. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snap, Ms. Tilly.”

She eyed him warily for a moment before deflating. “I just want you to be honest with me.”

“About what?” He asked. He didn’t think he could deal with another revelation today.

“At the end of this… what do you think is next? And don’t you go lying to me, neither.”

The question was like a jammed gun, poised to go off in the hand of the first person who pulled the trigger. There was a reason she wasn’t asking Dutch, Grimshaw, or Arthur, or even sharing her thoughts with Mary Beth, who would be happy to paint her the pretty picture that she wanted. Dutch would give her platitudes to chew on that would mean something, but not enough, Grimshaw would berate her lack of faith (which Javier certainly would have yesterday, probably), and Arthur would say something wholly truthful in that sad way of his, and probably make her cry.

At least Arthur would have an answer.

“I think at the end of this… all of us have a personal choice to make. A lot of us don’t have to make choices. We have to.” Javier said slowly. He remembered when they first arrived in Beaver Hollow, he had asked Dutch if they should scatter, for now. They were family, they would find each other again. They could resume later, elsewhere, maybe—there was no reason to die free if they could be free and alive. At least the women deserved that choice.

Tilly didn’t say anything, just looked at him as though she was waiting for him to take it back. Instead she sighed, far heavier of a sound than her young years deserved.

“Figured that would be your answer.” She said, turning back to her pile of fish. “You know, you and Arthur sound real alike sometimes.”

“Oh, that’ll make a man feel real nice,” Javier drawled in an easy imitation of Arthur. Arthur had things going on with him, a cough that plagued him enough to make him glare whenever Javier mentioned it. Maybe John would know.

“Don’t be sour. Doesn’t much suit you,” Tilly replied, airily. “I meant that sometimes the two of you sound like Hosea. Times like these, Hosea would tell us to think for ourselves.”

Hosea would be mad as hell, probably spitting enough hellfire in Dutch’s ear to light the whole camp ablaze, with Dutch making a halfhearted attempt to placate him, and failing. Even when Dutch didn’t listen (more often than Javier really thought about) at least someone was saying something. Hosea was always saying something. Micah only ever listened.

He missed Hosea.

“Well, wherever he is, I’m sure he’s the reason we’re still alive.” Javier said, pulling the plate of hot cakes from close to the fire. They were warmed, the coffee was hot enough to be poured, but Javier didn’t want to move quite yet, didn’t want to leave Tilly’s side in the same way he didn’t really want to leave Karen’s side.

“I’m sure he’s doing the very best he can, from up there.” Tilly replied, her voice almost as sweet as it was almost a lifetime ago. What felt like a lifetime ago.

He eased up, giving Tilly a nod in lieu of a parting word. Karen would end up falling asleep if left alone long enough, and he wanted her to at least eat before she did. Grimshaw eyed him as he crossed the camp again to Karen’s lean to, where she was leaning against one of the heavy ropes that kept the tent propped up. She was barely awake he guessed, but she took to the food with a thank you and gusto. He wondered if she had been eating much more than coffee and whiskey and the occasional can of beans he had seen her with.

Left with nothing to do again, and the nagging feeling that not being able to find John wasn’t by chance, Javier figured he would try and court Bill’s miserable attention. He had given Javier a long stare when he left this morning with John, a look that Javier was sure that not even Bill fully knew what it meant. Bill would corner him one way or another at some point—might as well make the man think he was amendable to whatever he was going to say. It had to do with John, and Javier had never agreed with Bill’s thoughts on John, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that would stop Bill.

Beaver Hollow was so damnably dark after spending so much time out and about in town, with the mood so bleak and tense, it was suffocating. It dragged on his own mood, any cheer he had from his little chats with Karen and Tilly evaporated between the wary glances and the hot clamminess in the temperature. John would call it wishy-washy, Hosea would say indecisive, probably. He had called John indecisive more than once, shaking his head as he did so, murmuring “Why was _that_ what the boy got from me?”

Hosea would have hated this. All of it. The cave, the way Arthur had all but disappeared, the way their little family had broken and splintered, and doubts had filled the cracks.

Javier gave the camp a glance around from his spot by the scout’s fire, unwilling to pretend he wasn’t just looking for John. Instead his eyes fell on Micah’s back, covered in heavy leather as he read from the paper at one of the low tables. Micah was oddly calm against the backdrop of tension and betrayal that seemed to weigh down everyone else. Usually, Javier wouldn’t concern himself with any sort of mood Micah was in. Yet, he found himself strolling up to where the man was sitting, approaching him for once instead of Micah creeping up on him, his voice alight in some private joy that Javier probably didn’t want to know about.

He didn’t trust Micah, but Javier didn’t feel the _need_ to trust Micah. The man did his job in a ruthless sort of manner that didn’t leave loose ends, as he tended to say, but the man was an outlaw, through and through. They all were, he couldn’t pretend to be pious in the face of his own charges, but there was something gleeful and exacting in the way Micah went about things. The way he went back to tie up so called loose ends, the way he demanded and took, even in the camp.

Javier glanced at Dutch’s tent, saw it closed and secured, with the lamp illuminating the man’s figure, sitting motionlessly in his chair. He seemed to be staring down into a book, never turning the pages.

“Micah,” Javier started, putting concern into his voice as he came up. (‘That fool in his ear,’ Arthur had said, rough and tired, and angry; ‘What’s he doing in Dutch’s tent?’ Karen had demanded, rightfully questioning.) “Can I uh, talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course, partner.” Came the reply, Micah offering the seat next to him with a wave of his hand. "What's on your mind?"

‘Plenty,’ Javier thought to himself, as he settled on the barrel.

Just so goddamned much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [thudding sounds as i beat javier's ass in for this garbage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uo0NmOGJXqQ)
> 
> anyway, you can come chill with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/nukapoprocket) if you wanna see me praddle on about playthrough four or theories about the strange man and why i'm gonna kick his ass


	3. simmer down an' pucker up, i'm sorry to interrupt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John _does_ think, contrary to popular belief. It's just that sometimes when he thinks about things too long, he gets to the conclusion, and he's never liked the ending to his thoughts.
> 
> Moreso when The Strange Man is involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this ended up sucking shit bc I think john would be slightly different if he were originally dating Javier. This flashback chapter was odd bc I was going through this hilarious war between what’s presented in canon: john also sharing abigail’s dream of leaving the gang and perhaps being a rancher! And the other thing canon presents which is later he says he doesn’t want that actually? But then he does it bc it gets him Abigail and it’s the correct course of action, bc what he actually wants is Abigail. I figure if he was dating Javier, he would probably have different wants and needs, so trying to weigh what he wants was a goddamn adventure. Most of my john characterization I pull from what’s going on in the world around him, since 1899 John isn’t so forthcoming with his feelings. I guess if you find it weird he doesn’t really want to leave the gang, it’s because he doesn’t have an actual reason to, because john doesn’t express his needs or wants. Which is… cool…
> 
> thank you to shades for betaing this and watching me cry for months on end about the strange man and rewriting and rewriteing and rewirting and ofc supporting me crushing john marston with a fallen tree. thank u kell for reading this a million motherfucking times i am so goddamn sorry. thank you to the peachy gc for listening to me go back and forth about the strange man over and over and over-- you're the bestest!!! thanks guys <3

_ Thy soul shall find itself alone _

_ 'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone — _

_ Not one, of all the crowd, to pry _

_ Into thine hour of secrecy _ :

_ Be silent in that solitude _

_ Which is not loneliness—for then _

_ The spirits of the dead who stood _

_ In life before thee are again _

_ In death around thee—and their will _

_ Shall then overshadow thee: be still. _

Shady Belle smelled like sage burning; dried red sage with the bright pop of salted orange peel and mint burning in various corners of the plantation, hiding the musk of decay and skunk cabbage that dotted around the swamp. Sage, according to Javier and Charles, was good for keeping negative energy—and spirits—at bay. It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one feeling the cold in the summer heat near the graveyard on the old plantation, but John felt that even the simplest of people could feel it. The old manor was spacious at least, made to hold a family and made to keep out the high noon heat that kept every person who weren’t white scurrying inside and away from direct sunlight. Noon was a few hours past though, and the gang was out and about again, circling around the food wagon, waiting for dinner.

Folk were trying to keep their spirits high. Saving Jack was huge; a desperately important win that they needed, after Dutch and Hosea’s plans ended up with the Law closer on their tails, and Sean dead in the ground.

John sighed.

Abigail’s crowing for Jack roused him from a mindless bout of carving, a little chess knight for no real reason. Jack was a few feet in front of him, playing with a few marbles John had found with his things. Jack seemed delighted, at least. Apparently, that’s all it took.

“He’s here!” John called from the side porch as Jack answered as well. Abigail came over quickly to check for herself. She’d been pleased for the past couple of days, cautious as they attempted to co-parent and tried to mind falling back into arguing around Jack. He was Jack’s father, Abigail was Jack’s mother. Those were two indisputable facts that they would have to navigate somehow, regardless of the rest of the equally indisputable facts that made up their lives.

“Thank you for mindin’ him.” Abigail said, getting to her knees to give the boy a once over. Jack was muddy from darting through the field barefoot, with a mud-covered scrapped knee on one side of him from the ensuing fall. He was alright, though, mindful about wandering too far from anyone’s eyes.

“Ain’t nothing,” John grunted, sliding his knife into its holster. “He was just playing.”

“I know.” Abigail tweaked the boy’s nose before standing back up.

John didn’t know what that meant, so he sighed and got to his feet as well. “Jack, if I don’t see you ‘fore you sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Alright,” Jack replied, easy, easier than John deserved. “Are we still getting bait?”

“We are still getting bait.” John agreed, as Abigail’s eyes narrowed.

“What kinda bait?” She asked, already unimpressed.

“Fishin’ bait,” John said at the same time Jack yelled “Big fat worms!”

Abigail sighed, but for once she didn’t seem upset. Faintly amused, John thought, but he figured it would be a few years until he could confidently tell her moods again.

“I guess fish that ain’t from a can would be nice.” Abigail shrugged. “Jackie, your aunt Karen has your supper bowl. Go get it from her, please.”

“Yes mama.” Jack chirped. “Bye pa! Night night.”

“G’night, squirt.” John glanced over at Abigail as Jack ran off, eyes narrowing at her curious stare. “What?”

“I don’t mean to put you on the spot. But I  _ do _ mean it. I ain’t wanted a thing from you but to be a father, and you’re doin’ that. So thank you.”

“I don’t deserve a thank you for it.” John muttered. Scared or not, this was the very least of what he could have been doing. Jack could stand to read things that weren’t the bible, maybe hang around a man that wasn’t Hosea or Arthur. Thinking about it made him feel a little raw— _ he _ was supposed to be that man.

“Well you’re gettin’ one. Thank you, John. He’ll have more than most boys with his father in his life.”

John sourly doubted that, but it wasn’t a thought worth getting Abigail all worked up about. She walked off, over to where Pearson was heaving the stew pot up and over the fire to keep it warm. The thought of it made John’s stomach turn—not that it didn’t smell good. Smelt fine, honestly.

Just wasn’t what he wanted.

While most of the camp grabbed bowls and spoons for stew, John went around back of Pearson’s wagon to fill two bowls with fresh picked huckleberries, blueberries, peanuts and black walnuts. Thinking again he grabbed two apples and a wedge of cheese; Javier would still be on watch, and there wouldn’t be a change for a few hours yet, at least until a while after the sun set. Who knows how much stew would be left? Ladling a tin mug through some water for his love as well, he walked the little walk up to Shady Belle’s wide gates.

“Hey handsome,” John purred, leaning awkwardly against the plantation’s gate. “Come here often?”

Javier startled a little, but looked pleased when he saw John, which made him smile wide and bright. Javier was so damned handsome, sometimes John could feel his heart thudding in his throat whenever his lover did the simplest things. Made him feel a little childish, the sweet feelings that still bloomed in his chest, but it was them. He smiled back.

“Was wondering when you was gonna show up,” Javier said. He motioned to the cup and bowl as John ducked in front of the wall to sit. Even with the well-trod path from the main road to the plantation, the area around was still more or less a jungle—thick underbrush and high trees with low hanging lines kept the entrance hidden. It was a good hideout; John would probably like it if it wasn’t so goddamn hot.

If it were a touch less haunted.

If things weren’t so goddamn awful.

“You brought me something?” Javier asked, appreciative. He glanced down the road with a hard squint before sliding down to sit next to John, who greeted him with a gentle kiss. It was easily the softest gesture the two had shared in days.

_ Days _ , John thought, a little miserably. Days of stress and gun fight after gun fight and they had barely spoken to each other. Javier smiled again against John’s lips, and they broke apart to sit closer together.

“Brought you  _ that _ and a snack—” John passed the bowl of berries and nuts over. “Unless you want me to go get stew?”

“Later, maybe.” Javier took a deep gulp from the mug and leaned against John’s side, pleased as a sunning cat. “Where were you all day?”

“Eh,” John hedged. He didn’t do shit, really. Wasn’t a ‘doing something’ kind of day. He picked at the cheese, bringing his knife back out to carve a chunk off. “Chores. Set the chicken coop back up. Jack fed ‘em beetles.”

Javier snorted. “Hosea was saying Jack’s real fine at finding bait for fishing.”

“Yeah, he don’t care about mud the way his ma wants him to.” John snickered. “Do you wanna come with us tomorrow morning and get bait? Past the fields, the river’s real easy to get to.”

“Us?” Javier asked. “Like you and Abigail or what?”

“No?” John cocked his head. “She might still be asleep if we leave early enough, though. If that’s what you’re wonderin’ about.”

“And she’s still gonna be in the house, right? In your room?”

“I figure if anyone can get Jack from right under my nose, we got bigger problems.”

Javier sighed, crunching at a handful of nuts and berries. “That’s not what I meant, John. When am I getting time with you?”

“Right… now?” John’s brow furrowed. “I know you got watch, I was fixing to head out when you were done eating.”

“I meant alone time.” Javier pecked his cheek.

John puffed a laugh. “Not with that big ole’ hole in my room. Don’t need anyone knowing about us that don’t need to.”

“Reckon you’re right,” Javier replied after a moment, and made like he was going to say something else, but clicked his jaw shut. “You and Abigail getting on better?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m doing what she needs of me—Hey.” John nudged his lover to sit up a little.

“Javi, look at me.” John said, quiet in the heavy heat. Javier was really something in the afternoon light; his eyes so dark and expressive, his lips pinched between his teeth anxiously when he finally looked up like John asked. He felt a little ridiculous demanding his lover’s attention when he didn’t have the words to say something poignant; He couldn’t articulate the feeling of the earth falling out from under his feet, or the pin prick of guilt he felt knowing Javier wanted his time and wasn’t getting it.

Javier sat up a little to give John the eye contact he wanted, but John found Javier’s expectant look (and his sun darkened skin, the way his hair had worked itself out of its tie, and curled sweetly at the base of his sweaty neck) deserved a kiss.

It felt like Javier met him halfway when their lips met again sweetly, as Javier’s hand cupped John’s cheek. John’s eyes slipped shut as Javier tugged playfully at his bottom lip, his hand urging John to turn his head. They lose themselves in the kiss, the heavy buzz of heat and flies and someone’s hooting laughter lost in the haze as the seconds ticked on. Javier pressed a slight deeper, John shifted closer, their tongues curling wetly as one of them whimpered. John’s hands itched to wander and find skin that would be warm to the touch and heaven to kiss, and it wouldn’t be the worst thing they’d ever done while one of them was on watch.

“Weren’t you gonna say somethin’?” Javier murmured against John’s lips, like he knew John was plotting to get his pants down.

“Mhm.” John gave him one last peck before sitting back up. “I was but –”

He shook his head. It wasn’t as important as he thought, maybe he didn’t need to press Javier about Jack or Abigail.

“Tell me?”

“I—I know things are difficult with me and Jack and,” John sniffed, rubbing his face tiredly. “I don’t want you thinkin’ I don’t care.”

“Oh, cariño,” Javier said after a moment, and John wanted to bask in being Javier’s sweetheart _forever_ and feel his heart thump with every endearing nickname. “Jack’s never been the problem.”

The ‘I beg to differ’ was on the tip of John’s tongue, he wouldn’t pretend. Jack wasn’t a problem, Jack was his  _ son _ , but he wasn’t so foolish to think being with the gang was good for the boy. An alligator-infested, haunted plantation with a father who didn’t know the first thing about fathering, running for his short life in an outlaw gang wasn’t what any boy his age needed.

He frowned. This wasn’t where he wanted the conversation to be going, not after a kiss like that. If Jack wasn’t a problem – Javier was saying so himself, then Jack wasn’t a problem. It wouldn’t do him any good not to believe Javier, strange as he was acting. John couldn’t fault him entirely, between days of not really giving each other more than a half-smile as they tirelessly worked through moving the camp, dodging the Pinkerton patrol coming in from the Heartlands  _ and  _ what was left of the Greys. They were settled again, and Dutch was fussing enough to be trying to form a plan. In between, he’d have time with his lover. They would be more than okay.

They had to be.

“If Jack ain’t a problem… then why don’t we say there’s no problems with us, then.”

“There  _ ain’t _ any problems with us,” Javier stressed. “Things are—you know. We’re busy.”

“We’re busy.” John agreed. That seemed right. Wasn’t like he didn’t come looking for Javier the moment he could get some time away. “We should be busy together some time. Soon.”

“You think so?”

“We ain’t got problems, and apparently we’re both busy. Might as well be busy together.”

“Hm.” Javier kissed John’s nose and snatched the apple that was idling in his lap. “Why don’t you find something for us to be busy with in Saint Denis?”

“You got it, bossy.” John got up, feeling more okay than he did when he first sat down. “Wanna come out with me and Jack in the morning?”

“Mm. If I’m awake,” Javier hedged, getting back to his feet and John frowned. “Why don’t you and I go for a walk this evening instead? You said the river’s real easy to get to.”

“Sounds fine, Javi.” John hummed in return, and Javier tugged him forward a slight to kiss him again. Tart, now. “You care if I take off?”

“Naw, you fed me.” Javier was smiling again as he strode back to his post, tossing the apple up and catching it. “I’ll see you.”

John sighed as Javier strode back to his post. He turned to make his way back to the house itself, intent on getting Old Boy and galloping out of the camp as fast as possible. Should things have been so difficult?

John dusted off his pants, feeling a little more secure than he did when he sat down, his stride less sullen and a little more cheerful. If Javier still wanted him, and Abigail wasn’t mad at him, and he didn’t make Jack feel bad, then he had to be doing alright.

Abigail had a wish to be away from the gang and be a rancher’s wife; a working man that’d come home to her every evening with a kiss and a desire to be right there with her. Seemed like a nice dream, a pretty one that he could understand if he thought he could be anything  _ but _ an outlaw. He wasn’t like Javier, who had a reason for running with them, had a fire in him that kept him more honest than John thought he’d ever be. He didn’t  _ have _ something else he wanted to be, really. But, he could understand the desire for safety; all any of them ever knew was running from place to place, law at their heels for having the audacity of trying to survive.

And, he supposed, coloring the fields around the Braithwaite Manor a darker shade of red.

Abigail wasn’t wrong for not wanting to be involved anymore, wasn’t wrong for wanting more than they had, or for wanting more than he could give.

Javier, though, didn’t want anything but his love.

“—hn. John! Do you hear me?”

John stopped. He didn’t hear a thing actually, he was a million miles into his thoughts, but Dutch was indeed calling him from where the horses were hitched. He didn’t realize he’d been ambling slowly down the trodden path, so he picked up his pace to where Dutch had his hand held out to The Count with a treat in his palm. The man cooed at the way his horse crunched in the same way any other horse would before acknowledging John with a long look up and down. He didn’t  _ seem _ upset, but tense in a way that John didn’t recognize as Dutch’s usual gang related tenseness. John supposed he would be tense too if he were in the man’s shoes; another dead gang member, Pinkertons closer than anyone wanted to think too hard about. Still, it wasn’t like Dutch to let the whole camp know he was wound tight.

Or maybe it was just John feeling like he was going to be scolded every time he and Dutch crossed paths.

“What you need?” John asked as Dutch ran a delicate hand down the Count’s crest.

“Nothin’. What do you think I wanted something from you? What could I want from you?”

John grunted in annoyance. The man was awfully cross, something that John didn’t want to deal with, so he shook his head lightly.

“I said need,” he stressed, hoping to appease him. “I know you ain’t wanted me for nothin’.”

“’Why’re you bein’ strange with me?’” Dutch mimicked, making John frown. “Ain’t very nice being on the other end of that, hm? Now, I didn’t call you over here for that. In fact, I just wanted to tell you how I liked seeing you and Jackie readin’ earlier.”

John blinked, and for a moment he entertained the idea of snatching his saddle up and simply riding away from the entire conversation.

He couldn’t, though.

Wouldn’t.

“Abigail wants him to read.” John replied instead. “Can’t have him reading the bible all the time, he’s just a boy.”

“Hm,” Dutch hummed in what sounded like agreement, turning to unbind The Count from his bridle and turn him loose to the herd again. “What’ve you got him on?”

“…Poe.” John replied after a beat, and Dutch snorted. It wasn’t so far-fetched that Jack didn’t care what John was reading to him, so long as  _ he _ was reading it.

“He likes that stuff?”

“He’s four, Dutch. I think he mostly likes playin’ in the dirt.”

Jack liked playing in the dirt and finding shiny rocks and bullet casings to hand over to John to examine, and he was fine to do that. He was a boy. John was a grown man who liked fancy revolvers and stories about death and fast horses that could get him away from awful conversations. John couldn’t see a reason they couldn’t both enjoy what they liked, so instead of waiting on whatever scathing reply Dutch had, John reached around him to grab his saddle.

“Oh yeah? You’re a real daddy now, knowin’ exactly what Jackie needs and wants and jumping whenever that woman says—”

“This again,” John scowled, now desperate to either escape the conversation or get eaten by gators. He quickly threw the saddle over Old Boy’s side, thankful that his hardy horse thought nothing of it, instead moving to let John work at the fastenings.

Dutch eyed John with a look that John didn’t understand and did not care to attempt to understand either. The man could do with journaling the way Arthur did. John was certain that’s why Arthur wasn’t so talkative when he was in a mood, he just wrote it down.

“Javier’s on watch, ain’t he?” Dutch asked, startling John out of his mental annoyances. “Thought I heard you two talking, earlier.”

“That what you think?” John answered tightly, his fingers fumbling over the buckles of Old Boy’s saddle. It wasn’t that he thought that Dutch  _ didn’t _ know about him and Javier. He just figured it was one of those things that there was no reason to bring up unless it became a problem.

And Javier wasn’t a  _ problem _ .

“You need to watch that mouth of yours. I ain’t done a thing to you to deserve any of that, ‘sides save  _ your _ son, driving all of us deeper into this alligator infested shithole—”

John heaved himself up and onto Old Boy in one smooth motion, having had more than his fill of Dutch’s ire—what else were they gonna do? Leave the boy to die? Abandon Abigail entirely? Watch her die looking for her— _ their _ son?

“What do you need, Dutch?” John enunciated again, balling Old Boy’s reigns tight in his fist.

To his credit, Dutch leaned back from his aborted rant to straighten back up and wipe sweat from his brow.

“Find Arthur and send him back here. I need to talk to him,” he finally said, making John roll his eyes. Arthur would come back when he felt to, as he always did, and so far as John knew, Charles seemed to be aware of his whereabouts if asked. Ever since Clemons, at least.

“I want you on the Mayor’s ball as well,” Dutch went on, like John could be damned to get into doing that sort of work. The last thing he wanted to do was make good with goddamn  _ Bronte _ .

“Why don’t you have Javier get you Saint Denis shiny?” John’s eyes narrowed as Dutch’s expression turned a little too close to satisfaction. “We’ll need you looking decent, Mr. Marston. Don’t let me down, now.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The Bayou was nothing like anything John had ever experienced; buzzing with life in a way he wouldn’t usually attribute to the hot, muggy State of Lemoyne. Deeper into Bayou was more of the same, but at least the high, shady trees kept himself and Old Boy cool as they plotted the dry path. The landscape was pretty; the rust colored paths of Rhodes leading out into the somehow still muddy pathways of the surrounding swamps and the thick, vivid green of overrun. Plants and bushes sprung up around the deeper bits of swamp, specked with the worrying pink of oleander sage. Apparently, there was a small bayou town outside of Saint Denis—Lagras, it was called – he wanted to visit there. They knew a thing or two about fishing, and had some impressive lures that he wanted to get for Javier, but even if they didn’t…

Anything was better than being in camp, right now.

Which just figured for John – for all Arthur claimed he was lucky, he had always felt like he had been born under the wrong star. When the walls started to crumble for him, it was more like every wall fell all at once, leaving him with no protection. He was used to it, though, this new normal feeling of being off balanced and volatile, of having to change everything he was all because Abigail—

‘ _ No _ ,’ he thought stubbornly, turning Old Boy down a less dry path, made muddy by the nearby swampland as opposed to the area getting a single drop of rain. ‘I ain’t thinkin’ like that no more.’ He had to change because he was Jack’s father, and being a father meant you had to change, somehow. From the way people talked, it was supposed to dawn upon him, and he’d just roll over and suddenly just know what knowledge he was supposed to impart to Jack, but that had yet to happen. He figured he could manage to love Javier and be a father at the same time.

He had promised Abigail that they would talk until they figured out how they would manage Jack, he promised Dutch he would go to the Mayor’s Ball, he promised Javier that he loved him more than anything else. All of which mattered to different degrees, but they all pressed on his mind nonetheless. Javier, John loved unconditionally, and they would fix whatever happened between them together, as they did. Jack would  _ always _ be John’s son, regardless of, well, anything. He had to be protected, and John wouldn’t fail again on that front.

Dutch, though, was acting real funny. He and Hosea created a hellraiser of a goddamn problem in Rhodes, something so foolish and reckless it brought the Pinkertons to their doorstep and Jack snatched from under their noses. As much as John wanted to be grateful they were still mostly intact in the end, and safe for now, he couldn’t shake the feeling things were likely to get worse.

There wasn’t much worse than feeling like he owed Dutch, and it was even less pleasant feeling that maybe he owned Dutch and the whole gang for saving Jack. What could he do to repay them but continue doing what he was doing? What did Dutch even want from him that he didn’t already have? It made his stomach turn sour at how his relationship with Dutch had deteriorated — things were either cold and formal, boss to henchman, or heated and was full of double meanings. In the moment, John wondered if Dutch had truly helped get Jack back out of the goodness of his heart.

He spat. Wouldn’t do him any good to try and understand Dutch. The sun hadn’t begun to set yet, and John had no plans to return to camp any time soon. Sans his walk for Javier, he had no reason to go back, and with how he had thought himself into a knot of frustration and vague foreboding, he probably needed to be away anyhow. John  _ hated _ the south; Lemonye’s thick humid heat made him want to fully abandon his clothes and sink into the gator infested waters for a moment of daytime relief. He hated that damn city, that eye sore  _ Saint Denis _ , he hated Shady Belle more than any other camp they’d ever stayed at, and he hated every dumb fucking choice that had brought them to the deep south, hurting and confused.

He groaned quietly, and Old Boy tossed his head in response. He probably wanted a treat with how John had him ripping the dirt to get away from that awful plantation house. Everyone was on the edge, even if no one wanted to admit how far they’d fallen. With Dutch circling everyone with a boisterous faux charm, it was either keep up the charade or it was disloyalty in his eyes.

Even through whatever strangeness had sprung between them, Javier still wanted to comfort him, even a little. He had no idea how much it helped, how much it felt like they still mattered, even with everything getting dicey around them. They’d make it, there wasn’t much that they had to fight about.

As far as John knew, anyway.

Musing about Javier like that made him a little sad—he did mean to achieve some sort of friendliness with Abigail, so Jack didn’t have to see them disagreeing so often, but not at the expense of what he and Javier had built. Abigail didn’t want that from him anyhow. He resolved to get Javier a gift of some sort while he looked for something to do in Saint Denis, maybe a new necktie that was particularly fancy, maybe a new leather holster for his revolver to go along with the new lure. Something to make his lover smile, at least.

With that in mind, and no interest in returning to camp any time soon, John turned his attention to the barely tamed path before him. Old Boy had been moseying, the slow gait of a horse whose rider wasn’t paying attention, and he had taken them deeper into the Bayou, seemingly unbothered by the eeriness of the area. John would admit, he didn’t know exactly where he was, thoughts of making Javier smile sent his mind blissfully quiet. Lemonye certainly wasn’t the West; nothing would replace those dusty red cliffs, the endless frontier that was California, least of all the heavy heat that weighed him down in the South. Bluewater Marsh was no exception to that hard and fast rule for him, but John supposed there was something to be said about the overgrown lushness of the area. Every direction he turned was teeming with life; bullfrogs croaked low and loud in the near twilight hours, eager for their supper of evening bugs that would begin to skim across the still swamps, also bringing hungry fish and snakes and, John was sure, curious gators. The marsh was fascinating mostly, but he wasn’t sure he’d be spending much time wandering around in it.

Coming around a long bend, a flick of a dark braided tail caught John’s attention. Seeing no smoke, probably meaning no camp, John urged Old Boy off the road to follow. The flowers were so delicately braided into the horse’s tail, it was simply too distinctive and too nearby—

“That you, Arthur?” John called, making the horse turn. That was Arthur’s new filly alright, which meant Arthur himself was nearby, probably picking the flowers for the horse’s tail. 

“Over here!” came Arthur’s voice, a pleasant shout from further off the road. “By the tracks.”

Curling his lip at the mud, John led Old Boy a bit closer towards Arthur’s voice before he decided to dismount and let Old Boy graze nearby. while he wadded through the muck. As John grew closer, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the tiny nook of space Arthur had found to rest. The man was leaning against the sturdy support of the elevated tracks, his journal out and open on his lap. It didn’t feel odd to see Arthur deep in a creepy bayou, completely calm, engrossed in drawing. Didn’t make the place any less gator infested and unnerving, but at least he was comfortable.

Arthur looked peaceful, if not tired, which was his usual state of being after a large take, and being their last big take was  _ Jack _ , John wouldn’t pester him about it.  _ Too much. _ “What brings you to Satan’s Taint, Lemoyne?”

John snorted. Seemed apt to him. “Saw Harmonia ‘round the road grazin’. Figured I’d come annoy you.”

“Real kind of you Marston, thank you.” Arthur replied, but he sounded amused, so John took it as a win. “Abi feeling better?” 

“She has Jack damn near tied to her apron strings for now. I’m hoping a roof over their heads will soothe her a little.”

Arthur paused his sketching. “That’s good of you.”

“I was gonna head into that city to get a few things for them while I’m runnin’ errands. Doubt we’ll be here that long, and I doubt we’ll see a city that big for awhile. Might as well take advantage.”

“Not that I disagree or nothin’ – bout time you remembered it ain’t just your hide you gotta think about – but I don’t think you lingering in Saint Denis is gonna do much but piss you off.”

“You’re not wrong, but Dutch wants me at the Mayor’s party. Should get used to it a little.” John, tired of standing, heaved himself up onto the supports and got up onto the tracks to sit. “He probably wants to fuck over Bronte, which I understand. Don’t get me wrong, I get the feeling—”

“Just feels like we’re doing a whole lot for a whole little. What does he think doing shit to Bronte’s gonna do for us?” Arthur didn’t look up from his journal. “I know. It don’t much matter to me right now about the gold those trash-ass hillbillies may or probably did not have, ask me later.”

Arthur was sketching orchids, a bunch of spider orchids that were sprouting from a nearby tree. The sketch was delicately done, like most of the sketches John had seen from Arthur over the years, but Arthur didn’t often redraw things, not the way he had a full page of lady of the night and spider orchids from all sorts of angles.

John sniffed and left Arthur to sketch quietly again, casting a gaze around the area. Swamp was swamp was swamp, and the biggest difference in this swamp was that the gators seemed even bigger, somehow. If he looked a mite father, there was a sturdy looking shack tucked in between some trees, no real different than any of the other shacks that dotted the State. Still though, it felt a little off, like there was someone in the house, watching them. John squinted at it a little harder.

“You check out that shack?” John asked. Arthur looked up and over. Tilted his head.

“No…” Arthur started, and spun his pencil around his finger. “Cause I didn’t see it over there.”

“You didn’t see it?” John asked, doubtful. “Alright.” 

Arthur sucked his teeth. “It’s mixed in with the big ass trees – Shut up.”

“What was that, old man? That dead eye going already?”

“Remember when I said I’d kick you bowlegged? Keep messing around and I’ll fix those bean poles of yours.”

John cackled, delighted. It had been a long while since he could hear the playfulness in Arthur’s threats. “Alright, alright, don’t break something.”

“I came out here for peace, John.” Arthur sighed, closing his journal. “Just because I don’t feel to leave you for the wolves to eat don’t mean I wanna hear your ass all the time.”

“One more thing, Arthur, now that you mention that.”

“You already said thank you—”

“I know, lemme say what I gotta say.” John groused, swinging his legs. “I wanted to say me leavin’—that ain’t had nothing to do with anyone but me. I wasn’t trying to hurt no one.”

Arthur snorted loud, making John’s eyes narrow sharply as he pressed on. “And well, I talked to Dutch and Hosea and I talked to Abigail and I talked to Javier. I’d explain it to Jack if I could, if it would mean a thing to him. But I never told you that I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“What?” Arthur asked, but John kept going before he lost his nerve.

“I’m sorry for leavin’. It was wrong of me, scared or not, and it was selfish.” John swallowed. “I never told you sorry for just leaving you to pick up the pieces, cause I knew you would.”

Arthur was quiet, as he was to do when John said something that surprised him, or something he didn’t want to hear. John couldn’t tell every emotion that crossed Arthur’s mind.

“You know Marston, I’ve thought about leaving here and there,” Arthur finally admitted after John began wondering if Arthur was gonna grab him and throw him in the water. “When Isaac was born, I thought ‘Maybe.’ Maybe I could be someone else for him. Fifty bucks in my pocket and Dutch expecting me back in the morning and I was shaking so hard I had to sit when the midwife handed him to me. I didn’t go nowhere. Dutch needed me. You know how that ended.”

Arthur drew his legs up, crossing them under him. “Boarder’a California, remember how we was out there for four months?”

John remembered. He was still pretty young, but he had been working then too. “Sure. Things were looser then.”

“Sure,” Arthur drawled. “I got a straight job, back then. Working for a woman who taught me about breedin’ horses. Said I had a way with ‘em. She offered me a permanent place. But I had y’all, didn’t I? Couldn’t go nowhere. Didn’t really want to, either.”

“Right.”

“How many times did Mary beg me to leave? How many times did I almost do it? Hosea did it, and he never felt a drop of guilt for leavin’ either. And I’m sure you think I’m telling you this so you feel some sort of guilt that you _ could _ leave and I never did, but I don’t care for your guilt, you hear me?”

“I do.” John muttered, looking at his lap.

“I ain’t been the best brother to you. I know you running from Jack ain’t got shit to do with anyone else. How could that have anything to do with me, boy? So, what are you really apologizing to me for?”

“I don’t want you to be upset with me anymore.” John admitted. With Arthur being so honest with him, might as well. “I can take my lumps for what I did, but I don’t want you to still be mad—I ain’t like that no more.”

Arthur turned a little and stared up at John until he looked back down to catch his gaze. “I ain’t angry with you, John. Never had much to do with you, anyway.”

“Hang on, what?” John asked. He still owed Arthur an apology, angry or not. He abandoned the family—that was a problem.

“Listen to me. When you left, Dutch was looking for you within three damn days. Three days and he had us searching high and low for you.”

And John  _ knows _ that, Javier was the one who found him and let him go—

Arthur paused, his eyes full of some emotion that John couldn’t fathom entirely, but he knew had nothing directly to do with him. He rolled his arm, the one he nearly lost months ago, the one he admitted still hurts under too much kick back, and it was all because Dutch didn’t let anyone go search for him—

Arthur stood up, brushing his pants off and tucking his journal into his journal. “Look at me, John.”

When John finally did, Arthur didn’t look angry. He looked rather calm, resigned almost, and he made sure John was looking right at him before he spoke. “I ain’t. Mad at you. Don’t you sit there feeling guilty. It don’t much suit you.”

With that, Arthur strode away, the hanging vines and low vegetation seeming to part around him as he did so. John waited until Harmonia’s gallop was just an echo in the stale air.

“Whatever the fuck that means,” John mumbled, wrapping his arms around himself.

If it did mean anything, Arthur wasn’t going to explain himself. He was as bad as Hosea when it came to saying something particularly earth shaking and leaving John to figure out what the hell anything they said even meant, and if it even applied to him. He worried at his thumbnail, eyes flicking to the still yet unrobbed shack that was nested between murky waters and lazing alligators. Might as well—with Hosea and Dutch’s plans on fire in Rhodes, they probably needed the money for whatever move they were gonna make next. Dutch would be bleating about it soon enough, trying to figure out something new he wanted them to focus on that they would need money for. He heaved himself off the tracks and climbed down, grunting as his boots hit the ground.

He started at the house; there was no way there wasn’t  _ something _ in there, something that kept Arthur from seeing the house considering how plainly out it was. He squinted.

John didn’t often give himself much space to consider the shadows and figures he saw if he focused hard enough. It made him feel off kilter and odd, like time was slowing down around him, while the shadows moved faster, and more often than he wanted to deal with, a man in a fine suit lurked in that space.

He  _ always _ wore a fine suit – simple, black and grey but well-crafted and expensive, with a crisp, bleached white shirt and a black, straight tie. His skin had the pallor of a long dead body; waxy and stretched looking, with eyes as dark as coal. John had been seeing that man for years, an ominous figure of inexplicable dread that had haunted him since childhood.

He was around in that house, The Strange Man. John was sure of it, even if he couldn’t see him, the house felt  _ wrong _ , the same kind of wrong that John felt whenever that man was around. Something about this country brought him back after years of him being nothing more than a horror story from John’s younger years. He showed up first in Blackwater on that awful day of the botched ferry robbery. He was standing at the head of the ferry, his pitch-black eyes boring straight into John, past him, as if he would be cowed by it.

John had never feared The Strange Man. He strode ahead regardless, his eyes holding The Strange Man’s line of sight, ignoring his mouthed words until the gang dipped into the ferry.

The Strange Man appeared again in Valentine, a spectator to an early morning hanging that was far too reminiscent of John’s own childhood for him to stare too closely. Things went to hell way too quickly later for John to try and find him again, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. He could mark both those instances off as a coincidence, but John’s never really believed in a coincidence occurring over the course of your entire life. The gang didn’t often get embroiled in crazy gun fights, not the way they had this year, and it meant something that  _ he _ was at one of the biggest ones.

There was a wailing as John approached the shack, a familiar sort of cry that he had come to relate with close encounters with The Strange Man. It was a neutral occurrence, but no less unsettling than it was the first time it happened. It was a wailing that seemed to walk next to him, as though a Banshee followed his steps as he went. The voice sounded sad this time, a wail that spoke more of agony of the heart than the wail a banshee would usually give off—he wasn’t so foolish not to know it was a banshee’s voice following him while he moved through the dead space. He didn’t focus on it, didn’t want to search for a Banshee. His father had warned him off them.

John didn’t remember his father in the way most people remembered their parents—not in degrees of love or hate but in flashes of impressions. There was nothing in John Marston Sr. to love or hate; hazy memories of a drunken man who had no business raising a child alone that John could summon when he himself had had enough whiskey for self-flagellation. John Sr. was oddly proud that he had someone to call Junior, having bouts of passing on his knowledge of The Old Country, or how they were cursed, or rather, how John Sr. had cursed his Junior.

He used to say their family was probably cursed. John Senior told stories of Scotland, the nebulous homeland that John didn’t care about, but he listened dutifully since it was seldom that his father ever cared about him. As far as John was concerned, he was an American, but his father still insisted they were cursed, and that John would bare the brunt of it. It was a loaded statement to receive from one’s father when neither of you could read, but it was his life at the time.

“Yer cursed, boy,” John Senior used to sneer, startlingly clear when John was least expecting it. “You steal from the fae and they’ll curse you. Ain’t no way out of it.”

It never meant much to John—his father died before he ever hit his double digits, useless enough that his death didn’t change all that much in his son’s life. It wasn’t like the old man was wrong or anything—John was certainly some form of cursed. Having such an absolute bastard for a father was certainly a curse in and of itself. It wasn’t enough for John Senior, of course, who listed off John’s sins as though he had any say in them.

“You were born on a new moon, in the middle of a wicked storm that tossed the ship to and fro,” John Senior spat before taking another swig of whatever was in the bottle in his hand. John rarely remembered the specifics of his father (ratty hair, chopped short, but he always remembered the man’s voice. Slurring and aggressive, but low and dangerous, as though there was something more frightening than himself that he had control over.

“You killed your mother, and you prob’ly think I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. I ought to kill you.”

John Senior would take a deep swig after that. “Maybe that would get Satan off my back.”

John never wished his old man back to life. He deserved to be beaten to death at a minimum, but if the man was alive now, maybe that awful specter he often spoke of wouldn’t be John’s problem.

The shack's steps squeaked under him; the two steps counted three as he reached the knob. His hand passed through. He tilted his head and pushed against the door instead, and it gave with a sticky creaking sound that made the hair on John's arms stand up on end.

His stomach dropped, the feeling of his insides being suspended as he ducked into the single room shack. What light there was yellowed, bathing the room in an ominous glow against the once rich red curtains. Where thick candles once stood, there were pools of wax holding down dusty tablecloth, the flames in the candles burning seemingly for no reason. Looked lived in, at least, with the low tables and single high-backed chair at the far back, with a cloth covered easel in the middle. Paintings lined the walls, faded pieces by someone with a sort of bleak feeling on his subjects. Odd, considering the regal looking deer, delicately painted eagles, and the familiar red cliffs of New Austin.

_ The Water Is Black With Venom. _

Pushing down a feeling he couldn’t quite name at the obvious answer he was looking at, John started digging through the draws and cupboards, pushing aside dusty vases looking for anything worthwhile. Mostly dust, a bottle of moonshine that he could share with Javier, some loose change that he shoved in his pockets. The banshee wailed on dutifully, her warning more than noted as anxiety started to spike; the Strange Man didn’t at first appear to be in the shack, but that wasn’t to mean he couldn’t  _ appear _ . John grunted as he yanked open a sticky drawer, humming as he finally found something worthwhile—a revolver.

The wailing grew louder as he reached for the seemingly pearl-adorned revolver, her wails growing to a fever pitch that made his teeth rattle and a shiver shoot up his spine. He took the gun, the feeling of the cool metal on his palm giving him another jolt as he turned it over. It was richly decorated; gold and ivory and lovingly crafted and for a moment John found a giddy sort of joy thinking about showing it off to Javier.

The wailing stopped, as though it had never happened.

“Now John,” came a voice from behind him, making John snap to attention. “You couldn’t have assumed this shack was unoccupied?”

The voice tsked, and John let out a slow breath, glancing into the standing mirror to his left. Eyes like a pitch-black cave stared back at him, sunken and piercing and made a shiver shoot down John’s spine.

The Strange Man.

_ Of course. _

The Strange Man looked the same as he always did, a fine suit and top hat, always standing a metered distance from John himself. He sounded as neutral as ever, a maddeningly low and often berating baritone that made John want to claw his ears off. It was bad enough that John had spotted the enigma lurking around Shady Belle—he had avoided a confrontation for a reason. His image hardly twitched in the mirror’s reflection, he stood ramrod straight, with his hands folded behind his back.

“Oh, this your shack?” John slid the gun into his waistband and raised his hands as though he was going to surrender. He could deal with creepy and unsettling, but dealing with the enigma that had been haunting the corner of his vision for as long as he could remember? There wasn’t a thing in the shack worth dealing with that.

“I was just leavin’, don’t worry yourself.”

“Says who?” The Strange Man asked, making John startle.

“H-What?” John frowned. He was used to The Strange Man’s dismissive, vague statements, his obnoxious questions. He wasn’t much for directness when he could make John feel especially stupid. “Fine. You got something you need me to know?”

“I thought I was fairly clear outside of the ferry.”

“’You just can’t help yourself, can’t you,’” John mimicked the Man’s cryptic words. “That ain’t clear. I can’t help myself doing what? Robbin’ people? Murderin’ people? Pissin’ under rocks? What?”

“Can’t stop—” The Man covered a chortle with his hand, moving to stand in the order of the shack that was overloaded with overburned candles. “Pretending you stand for some noble cause. John Marston, you have never stood for a thing in your damned life.”

John wanted to curse at the man, tell him he couldn’t judge, who was he to do so, and that John didn’t _ care _ but the words tasted like ash in his mouth.

“I hate a man that won’t live a truth—any truth at all.” The Strange Man intoned. “Won’t stand for a thing but will fall for anything. I suppose that is why it’s so frustrating to have to watch you run so often.”

“You  _ asked _ me to leave—Dunno why I’d ignore that.” John inched to the right, one foot over the other. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“You don’t have anything you want to ask me?”

John paused. “You mean, ain’t there nothing  _ you _ wanna tell _ me _ that I ain’t ask to hear? You’re fond of that.”

The Strange Man laughed, a full, delighted sound that made John’s hackles rise. The Man made John feel odd and wrong, like he wasn’t quite real, like if he reached to touch someone, his hand would pass right through it. The feeling was especially potent right now. Usually when faced with The Strange Man, John felt like he could leave whenever he wished, that he could simply walk away and not have to turn the implications of The Strange Man’s appearance over in his head.

It didn’t feel like it this time.

“I suppose it  _ is _ rather amusing – but I often find it sad.”

“What’s sad? The way you’ve been following me for fifteen years?”

“Closer to twenty-seven, actually.” John jerked reflexively, stepping back. “It’s no surprise you think everything has to do with you.”

“Followin’ me probably means something—”

“It means the chaos you sow is…” the man’s eyebrow arched, and he moved to stand in the corner of the shack, directly across from John. “Well, the trail of bodies in your wake is not insignificant.”

John went quiet, straightened up and watched as the Man’s lips curled into a cruel smirk. “Just this year—the ferry, that sweet girl with her brain matter splattered against the wall? A town, ravaged by your carelessness, a lineage destroyed because you couldn’t keep your eye on your child? Do you believe you will leave this area unscathed?”

“Ain’t nothing happened there that we could have avoided—an’ if you think I’m gonna feel bad about icin’ a bunch of inbreds, I don’t.”

“And isn’t that just like you?” The Strange Man huffed. He shook his head as though he was exasperated, and John felt to throttle him.

“I don’t think you followin’ me around makes you the master of what’s going on in my head.”

“You truly don’t understand how out of your depth you are,” he replied, calmer still. “The forces you stare down.”

John felt struck, like lightning had jolted down his spine, holding him in place. Still, it wasn’t fear that was making him cagey.

“I don’t care.” John snapped back. “Nothin’ and no one stares me down.”

“You truly do believe me to be lying,” The Strange Man mused, his pitch-black eyes flashing. “Alright. The man that raised you will only lead you further into the violence—the very violence that will kill your brother by the end of this year.”

“That one of your predictions?” John shook his head, his hands curling into fists. “I wouldn’t let that happen—I—No. Arthur’s fine. I just saw him.”

“Arthur Morgan has made choices, as any human with free will does,” The Strange Man intoned. His figure shuddered, a motion that John didn’t quite know how to process. He blinked, and the Man was suddenly in front of him. A single stride from either of them would put them in each other’s space. “You were granted free will, were you not? Is this not what you choose to do with it? Yet you insist that I lie.”

The Strange Man’s form shuddered again, a motion that made John’s stomach lurch. He sucked in a sharp breath to center himself again, his eyes falling shut for the barest second—his eyes parted again to see The Strange Man’s gloved hand hovering above his throat.

The Banshee began to wail again, this time closer, louder,  _ angrier  _ than John had ever heard her. The Strange Man could hear her, John could tell from the way his eyes flicked out the window before focusing on John once more.

“Your brother won’t make the end of this year.” The Strange Man repeated slowly, as though John simply needed it said to him slower. John bared his teeth. “You’ll leave him to choke on his own blood, thinking he did it for you.”

The Strange Man straightened up a slight, his face settled back into his usual impartial blankness. “You lie and you cheat and you kill in the service of liars and murders and because no money is exchanged, you think you are beyond judgement? That you will answer to no one?”

“I ain’t—” John fumbled, and The Strange Man dropped his hand.

“You do not have the capacity to speak in absolutes. Not about this.”

He moved normally now, long elegant strides to the high-backed chair back in the corner of the room. He sat slowly, crossing his right ankle over his knee and resting his hand on the folded knee.

“Why don’t you go on ahead, Marston?” The Strange Man went on, and John shook his head. How long had he been standing there, faced off against someone—something—that was beyond him? He rolled his shoulders.

“I’m sure you have people who would care if I ripped you piece from piece.”

John’s mind went blissfully blank as he willed his legs to move. He felt like a fawn, new on his limbs as he stumbled forward, an invisible force seeming to push him as he went. The old door swung open as John crossed the threshold, shutting with a force that should have rattled the shack, but it instead felt like a dismissal, a final insult from The Strange Man.

The Banshee’s wails stopped.

Whatever he was, and John didn’t often think of the who’s and what’s of the man, he wasn’t—wasn’t a thing like John. There was very little in the way of answers; years of equilibrium shattering confrontations and half threats all coming to John’s mind unbidden as he desperately tried to think of a single lie The Strange Man had ever told him. He was mostly left with The Strange Man’s unanswered, or perhaps, already answered questions about John himself, questions that John would drop in a bottle of whatever was close before he thought about them.

John sighed, resigning himself to a long night of no sleep, and began patting himself down for his pack of cigarettes. Instead, he plucked the gun he had looted from that awful shack and turned it over in his hands once more. It was an awfully pretty gun, prettier than a gun needed to be if he wanted to be honest, but he supposed a Schofield deserved to be that pretty. He could pawn it, and do something decent with what he was sure would be an extravagant take from the St. Denis fence.

He holstered it and whistled loud for Old Boy as he started walking towards the road.

The same feeling that was feeling him to take that gun was saying to keep it, and after his earlier run in, he damn well deserved to. Old Boy came trotting over obediently just as John reached the road, bumping his lips against John’s outstretched palm.

‘Arthur will die,’ The Strange Man’s voice repeated in his head. He lifted himself up and into his saddle, exhaustion hitting him the second he sat down.

‘Now what?’ John’s own voice rang against each ‘Arthur will die’, making John press the palms of his hands into his eyes, willing himself to what felt like hours ago, when he was simply basking in Javier’s tender attention.

But Javier was upset. Arthur could be dying. Dutch was losing his mind. And somehow John had to guide Jack and Abigail out of all of this.

“First things first,” John said aloud, the sound of his voice grounding him a little. He was still alive, and there was plenty he could do, so long as he was still breathing. “Javier needs a gift. Jack needs shoes. Arthur needs to go to the doctor.”

It seemed manageable.

John could do manageable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is 'Spirit of The Dead' by E.A. Poe. I gave John a variety of different likes and skills, and liking Poe came from the idea he's a little obsessed with death. It also stands him starkly different from Dutch, who I think would find Poe.... uninteresting, but would probably be happy John's reading so there's that.


End file.
